


A Brief History of Monsters

by Polomonkey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Eventual Happy Ending, Forced Orgasm, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Verbal Humiliation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And John sees now that Sherlock was lying when he said he wasn't scared of Moriarty." </p><p>Jim comes to get Sherlock and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a work in progress transferred over from FF. I'm afraid updates tend to be slow but I hope to improve on that.
> 
> Anyway, there is explicit torture and non-con in this fic and it does get quite dark so proceed carefully, my lovelies.

John Watson was never a sound sleeper. Growing up, he can recall the long nights of insomnia, stretching on forever the way the time does in childhood. Then his tour in Afghanistan quickly impressed upon him the importance of sleeping lightly, of staying alert to danger even while resting, and of waking instantly. And since his return, the nightmares that plagued him put paid to any thoughts of blissful slumber. The Afghanistan flashbacks subsided since he moved in with Sherlock, but recent weeks have presented him with a whole new host of bad dreams.

Moriarty.

The dreams are never exactly the same, but they share certain key features. Sometimes he and Sherlock are back at the pool, only this time they don't get away. This time the bomb does detonate and John watches the world explode, Moriarty laughing in the background. That's the one that wakes him up gasping or choking.

The others do not take place in the pool. In the others, they are in random places; Sarah's surgery, or the British Museum, or even John's own bedroom. And in these ones, John cannot move, cannot speak, cannot close his eyes. And Moriarty is hurting Sherlock.

These are the dreams that John wakes up from without a sound. He lies rigid in bed, fists clenched, teeth clamped together, terrified.

After a nightmare, John can rarely get back to sleep. He gets up to make tea, or attempts to read, or simply stares up at the ceiling. He tries to strategise in these dead hours; to think of how to protect them from Moriarty, how to anticipate his next move. He has no doubt that Moriarty is coming back, the only question is when. And John knows it's up to him to be ready. John has nothing but respect for Lestrade and the rest of the force, but he knows they're out of their depth. He is in awe of Mycroft's long reach and extensive surveillance, but he doesn't believe in it. On a rational level, John tells himself his distrust is a reaction to the pool incident, when neither the Yard or Mycroft were there to help. On a private, very irrational, level, John knows that there isn't a person in the world he trusts with the security of Sherlock.

Least of all Sherlock himself.

John has never met a man he thinks more of than Sherlock, but the consulting detective's total blind spot to the danger Moriarty presents scares the shit out of him. To give Sherlock credit, the pool seemed to have stripped him of at least some illusions about his arch-nemesis. But John sees a certain restlessness in Sherlock as he paces about the flat; has noticed the way Sherlock tilts his head to look behind him at certain crime scenes, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of someone watching him.

Sherlock does not want Moriarty to hurt him, John knows that. But he cannot stop being fascinated by his enemy and John fears where that fascination might lead.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He brings it up, every now and again. Sherlock tends to be either irreverent or dismissive.

"I have no intention to go out looking for Jim. I'd prefer not to suffer another six hour long lecture from Mycroft on risk seeking behaviour. I swear, the man reads one A-Level psychology textbook and suddenly he thinks he's Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi."

John knows better than to fall into the trap of asking who Mih- who _that_ is, and presses on.

"But you still want to know where he is, what he's doing."

"Yes John, I believe it makes sense to keep tabs on a man who's so clearly keeping tabs on me."

Sherlock never says 'us' when he talks about Moriarty being a threat. He only emphasises that Moriarty is after him. John knows that's his way of refusing to acknowledge how Moriarty targeted John the last time. In a weird way, John thinks, he might also be trying to protect John's feelings by pretending John isn't in the firing line. He wonders if that comforts Sherlock. It doesn't comfort him.

"Are you scared?" John asks once, in a particularly unguarded moment. Sherlock fixes him with his patented piercing gaze but he does John the service of not forcing him to elaborate.

"Of Jim? No."

"Why not?" John says, hoping he sounds casual. As though there's any fooling Sherlock.

"I'm more intelligent than him," Sherlock says, shrugging.

Even in his anxiety, John can't help but roll his eyes. "How do you know?"

"I deduced it," Sherlock says and he wiggles his eyebrows at John in a way that seems so comically out of place that it makes John laugh, and drop the subject. Which, he reflects later, was probably the point.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

They only have one real argument about it. It begins when John dozes off while he and Sherlock are watching television one night and wakes to find himself alone. It's half-ten at night and John can't think of a single reason Sherlock would need to leave. He searches the flat with growing panic, hitting redial on his phone in the hope Sherlock will decide to pick up. Just as he is grabbing his shoes and heading out the door to look for him, Sherlock appears in the doorway, looking pleased with himself.

"Look what I got-" he starts to announce, then finds himself pushed up against the wall.

"Where the fuck were you?" John shouts, not even bothering to temper the rage and fear still coursing through his body.

A normal person might shove John away, or object, or demand an explanation but John sees that Sherlock understands it all in less than a second and somehow that makes he even angrier, because if Sherlock can deduce John's thought process so easily now, then why did he disappear like that?

"John-" Sherlock's voice is gentle.

"No!" John spits and hears the catch in his own voice. "You don't- you don't do that-"

"John," Sherlock says again, still calm. "You're hurting me."

"Good!" John says and then comes abruptly to his senses, and lets Sherlock go. "Shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-".

"Understandable," Sherlock says briskly, dusting himself off. "You felt concern upon discovering my absence. Misplaced concern I might add, if you had taken a few seconds to consider the likelihood of Jim managing to infiltrate our flat and remove me from under your nose without waking you or making some kind of mess you might have saved yourself a little worry."

"I didn't... I didn't think he'd taken you. I thought you'd-"

"You thought I'd gone out looking for him," Sherlock says and something indefinable flashes behind his eyes. "Sheer idiocy. Again, if you'd taken even half a second to engage your brain, you might have realised how stupid that idea was."

John feels his blood rising again.

"Don't mock me, Sherlock. I don't know what that man might be capable of making you do."

"Making me do?" Sherlock sneers. "I can assure you, I consider myself above petty manipulation, especially from the likes of Jim-"

"Stop calling him Jim!" John shouts. "He's not your friend, he's not your arch-nemesis, he's a fucking psychopath who wants you dead!"

"What do you want from me, John?" Sherlock says, as close to irate as he ever gets. "You want me to lock myself in my room? Hire Anderson to stand guard outside the flat? Stop being a detective and give up my whole life on the off chance that a consulting criminal might jump out of an alleyway and say boo?"

"I want you to take this seriously!" John yells.

"You think I don't take this seriously? You think I don't understand the threat Moriarty poses? You think I haven't considered all the ways he could hurt me?" Sherlock's face is very pale and intent and he doesn't meet John's eyes when he says: "Or... or hurt you."

John deflates, all the fight leaving him. He takes a deep breath, then another, then takes a proper look at Sherlock and the bag he's been holding since he came in.

"Why did you go out?"

Sherlock gives a lopsided smile and produces a packet.

"You bought popcorn?"

"You were complaining that we never have popcorn when we watch a film together. So I went to the corner shop."

"But you hate popcorn."

"I do." Sherlock shrugs and finally looks John in the eye. And John can't be angry anymore.

"Mycroft had his eye on me the whole time," Sherlock says at last and John nods.

"Okay."

"And I'm not going to stop saying 'Jim'," Sherlock adds, defiantly.

"It's okay. I know why you do it. Like using Voldemort's proper name."

"What?" Sherlock says and then his face creases in disgust. "Oh. Those ridiculous magical books you made me read. Do you know John, that septet was riddled with so many internal inconsistencies that it's a wonder Harry Potter wasn't killed by the weight of his own crumbling narrative."

"Says the man who stayed up all night to finish the series." John says, grinning.

"I never leave anything incomplete," Sherlock sniffs. "Now, are we going to make this infernal popcorn or not?"

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The argument was the most serious Sherlock ever was on the subject, and John didn't probe further. He kept his fears to himself, nursing them in the long black of sleepless nights. He turned all of the possibilities over in his mind, tried all the different solutions in all the possible combinations. There was one stone of his psyche, however, that he left resolutely unturned. John deliberately glossed over thoughts of why exactly he felt so strongly about protecting Sherlock. Or felt so strongly about Sherlock in general. They were just friends, as John liked to mentally underline. Good friends. Partners in deduction. Flatmates. Comrades. John had plenty of mates in the army like that. He'd go out of his way to protect any one of them, Sherlock was no different. And if sometimes he looked at Sherlock a little too long, or held his breath when Sherlock accidentally brushed up against him; well, that didn't mean anything. Neither did his recent break up with Sarah. He just wanted to get her out of Moriarty's firing line, that was all. And if Sherlock seemed in an unusually good mood on receiving the news, well John was sure he was reading too much into things. He didn't care whether Sherlock was happy about him and Sarah anyway. So it was all fine.

John was good at keeping these reassurances at the forefront of his mind, which is why, nine weeks to the day after the pool incident, waking up to find Sherlock sliding into his bed slightly wrongfoots him. In the early days of moving in with Sherlock, he may have had one or two dreams of this kind but he put them down to the disorientation of a new flat. Besides, he was sure experts always said that sex dreams were really about death or your career or something. Still, as easy as it was to be blasé about those dreams, the reality of Sherlock appearing next to him is harder to be brush off.

John blinks away sleep and turns to Sherlock, entirely uncertain of his next move when his soldier instincts kick in and he realises that something is very very wrong. He already has an inkling of what's happening from the tension in Sherlock's body even before Sherlock presses his hand over John's mouth and whispers in his ear:

"He's here."

John's body is conditioned enough by his army training to go into survival mode even as his mind struggles to comprehend. The first feeling is numbness. Then a flash of incredulity that Sherlock took the time to sneak across to John's room rather than utilising his one chance at escape. Then, finally, abject terror.

John nods at Sherlock to signal his understanding and the man takes his hand from John's mouth.

"My pistol-" John whispers and then stops, because his pistol is in the living room, under the couch cushion, where he left it last night when he got up to make tea and wanted to be armed.

"Not here," he whispers, defeated and Sherlock tightens his lips. His face is impressively blank but John knows this man, knows him more than anyone he's ever known in his life and John sees now that Sherlock was lying when he said he wasn't scared of Moriarty. Sherlock is just as scared as John, and in that moment John makes a solemn promise to get Sherlock out of this or die trying.

"We could-" Sherlock starts to say but stops abruptly. The door handle is starting to turn. Both men freeze as the door swings open, slowly, like in a horror film, to reveal Moriarty standing framed in the doorway. And John prays that it's not actually happening, that he's stuck in one of his nightmares again, that he'll wake at any moment; but the sudden clutch of Sherlock's hand on his arm tells him that it's real, real, real.


	2. Outmanoeuvred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in present tense for absolutely no reason, then all the rest are in past. I am easily confused.

"Well, isn't this... cosy." Moriarty rolls the words around his mouth, framed by the light filtering through the open door. Beside him, John feels Sherlock draw his hand back from his arm.

"I mean, I had my suspicions," Moriarty continues. "The great Sherlock Holmes and his faithful lap dog... clearly he wasn't keeping you around for your brains."

John finds his voice.

"Fuck you."

"Oh, he speaks!" Moriarty seems delighted. "What other tricks have you taught him, Sherlock? Before I show him how to roll over and play dead."

John hears the tiniest of catches in Sherlock's breathing, but when his friend replies, his tone is perfectly scathing.

"Breaking into flats, Jim? Very petty criminal. Not normally like you to get your hands dirty, is it?"

"Oh it looks to me like you're the dirty one, Sherlock." Moriarty snaps on the light and John and Sherlock blink at the sudden brightness. "Can't say I'm not a little bit jealous you didn't ask me to join." He smiles slowly and John wishes he hasn't kicked his blanket away in the night as he feels Moriarty's eyes drag across their bodies. He is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock is shirtless.

Moriarty seems to read his mind.

"Oh don't get shy now, Johnny, we're all friends here." He moves towards the bed. "In fact, I've been hoping I could get to know Sherlock a little better..." As Moriarty talks, John watches him extends his hand towards Sherlock's chest. When his fingers hover dangerously close to Sherlock's bare skin, John cracks. He knocks Moriarty's hand away and jumps off the bed in one fluid motion, pulling Moriarty's arm around to twist it up his back.

"You don't touch him," he hisses in the man's ear. "Ever."

If anything, Moriarty seems to relish his proximity. He begins to laugh.

"How very Action Man! I love it! Sherlock, your lap dog's more like an Alsatian, isn't he?"

He whistles through his teeth and at first John thinks it's another dig at him, but when two of Moriarty's henchmen appear in the doorway, John realises it's a signal. And his heart sinks.

With surprising dexterity, Moriarty manoeuvres his arm out of John's hold and steps away, leaving one of his men to grab John and pin his arms behind his back. John struggles briefly, then stills, sensing the futility. He looks at Sherlock, who has risen from the bed and been apprehended by the other henchman. Moriarty approaches him slowly and to John's horror, he gently strokes his hand down Sherlock's face. His friend remains impassive, but John can see a vein pulsing through his neck.

"Sorry Johnny," Moriarty singsongs. "You'll have to learn to share."

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

They end up in the living room. John is pushed onto the couch, his hands tied in front of him. Moriarty keeps Sherlock standing, still in the grip of the behemoth henchman.

"Sorry we can't stay for long," Moriarty says. "But it's only a matter of time before your irritating brother figures out the little wild goose chase we've sent him on."

Sherlock smiles tightly.

"Many men have tried to hoodwink my brother, Jim. It rarely ends well for them."

"Well I admit it was difficult," Moriarty says, with the air of one musing aloud. "Infiltrating his inner circle. Planting fake leads. But it's all worth it to know that his crack team of crack shots are kicking in the doors of a crack den in Kilburn right now, in the misguided belief they've found my evil headquarters."

"He'll have left agents here," Sherlock says flatly.

"He did." Moriarty cocks his head. "They're dead."

John closes his eyes, briefly.

"And we're next, I suppose." Sherlock's voice is steady.

"Why would I kill you Sherlock? We haven't even got started yet! No, no; you're coming with me."

John flashes a look at Sherlock but his friend is staring straight ahead.

"Don't worry, I'll give you a few minutes to say your goodbyes to Johnny, since you won't be seeing him again," Moriarty says. "You can interpret that how you want."

Some small voice at the back of John's head is telling him it can't end like this, with Sherlock at the mercy of Moriarty and him slumped on the sofa with a bullet in his brain. The voice is not helping, but at this point John doesn't know what will. He tests the rope around his hands, tries to flex his muscles.

"I fail to see how killing John is necessary," Sherlock says to Moriarty, in the same uninterested tone. "Surely taking me is enough."

"Ah, but I'm a man of my word Sherlock," Moriarty says, wagging his finger. "And you kept... on... looking... for me. Did I not tell you to leave me alone? Did I not mention what I would do if you didn't?"

"My memory isn't impaired Jim, I simply don't see the link between John and burning the heart out of me."

Moriarty laughs, and he sounds like a wild animal.

"It was only ten minutes ago that I walked in on you in bed with him, my love."

Sherlock scoffs.

"Don't be facetious Jim, I was merely informing John of your little house invasion. You more than anyone know that my heart is my work. I presume abducting me will see to it that I'm unable to do my job, therefore-"

"See, now you're just over rationalising," Moriarty cuts in. "Say your goodbyes, Sherlock."

He motions to the man holding the detective and he releases his iron grip, pushing Sherlock onto the couch next to John. John turns to face him and instantly feels tears pricking at his eyes. _This can't be it,_ the voice whispers.

"I'll think of something," Sherlock says, in a low voice. John nods, but he knows there's nothing.

"Sherlock... I just want to say... living here with you-"

"Don't!" Sherlock cuts in with surprising vehemence. "Don't start saying goodbye to me John. We just have to think."

John is about to continue, because if it's his last moments on earth, he may as well tell the truth (the real truth, the one he's never admitted - that in his heart of hearts, he thinks Sherlock is...) when suddenly it comes to him; the gun.

It's still tucked down the side of the couch cushion. The couch cushion that Sherlock is sitting on.

He lifts his head to meet Sherlock's eyes and tries to signal. Sherlock catches on to the fact that John is trying to tell him something, but he can't grasp what. John makes a few cursory gestures with his tied hands, but Moriarty is watching them and he can't risk being too explicit. Then he has an idea.

"Sherlock, let me speak. What we talked about in the bedroom-" Moriarty lets out a little whoop at this, but John ignores him. "Do you remember what I said?"

Sherlock nods, eyes widening.

"Well, I can't let you sit on it anymore." He accompanies the word 'sit' with some rather pointed eye narrowing, but it's unnecessary. Sherlock understands.

"You're right, John," he intones, while slipping one hand as subtly as he can down the side of the couch.

"Heart-warming," Moriarty says, yawning ostentatiously. "But finish up now Sherlock; it's time to put the dog down."

"Alright," Sherlock says. "Let's go."

Moriarty looks slightly surprised as Sherlock rises to his feet, but he doesn't see the gun concealed behind his back until Sherlock brings his arm around and points it in his face.

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"Clever boy," Moriarty murmurs.

"End of the line, Jim." Sherlock smiles mirthlessly. "I'm aware your henchmen might be armed to high heaven, but I doubt they can reach their weapons before I blast your face off."

John watches Moriarty's face and is dismayed to note that the man barely flickers.

"What amazes me, Sherlock, is how little you learnt from our last encounter."

With a sickening sense of inevitability, John becomes aware of the tiny red laser dot hovering over his heart.

"If in doubt," Moriarty says conspiratorially, "always have a sniper on the rooftop." He grins expansively, secure in his victory and John is suddenly so sick of the games that he turns to Sherlock to tell him to take a shot at Moriarty anyway, regardless of how it'll get John killed. But Sherlock does something unexpected.

He puts the gun to his own head.

"Kill John," he says. "And I'll shoot myself."

Moriarty looks, for a single second, utterly dumbfounded. Then he recovers.

"Interesting tactic," he says. "Bit of a gamble, considering my ultimate endgame is for you both to be pushing up daisies anyway."

"But not yet," Sherlock says. "You want to study me first. See what makes me tick. See what we can do together. That's why you came to get me."

"Well I can't deny that." Moriarty pauses, thoughtful. "I'm studying you right now. Self-sacrifice doesn't seem like your thing, Sherlock. And the bonds of friendship never seem to have moved you before." He considers. "In fact, my extensive research indicates you've never had a friend before in your life. So what am I missing?"

He steps forward, peering into Sherlock's eyes, and tilts his head to the side. Then he looks at John. Then back again. Then he freezes.

"Oh. Oh, oh, oh! This is too perfect!" Moriarty seems to be in paroxysms of glee.

"What?" says Sherlock, sharply.

Moriarty smiles broadly.

"You love him."

John's head jerks up. He can't help himself. He knows Moriarty is playing with them, trying to get under their skin but still...

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock raps out, and John tells himself he does not feel the slightest shiver of disappointment.

"Of course it was perfectly obvious from our little poolside rendezvous that Johnny here was head over heels for you Sherlock, but I had no idea the feelings were reciprocated."

John knows now is neither the time nor place for embarrassment, but he can't help the faint flush that rises in this cheeks to hear how obvious his secrets were to Moriarty. Sherlock, he can't help noticing, does not react to this statement.

"Think what you like, Jim, my feelings for John are purely platonic."

"Oh I will think about it. This is quite a turn of events..." Moriarty seems lost in thought. "A sociopathic genius... in love? However does that work?"

"I've made my position clear," Sherlock says briskly. "You can take me but you leave John alive, or I'll end myself now."

Moriarty doesn't appear to be listening. He's staring at John in a way that John doesn't like. His gaze is... predatory. Before he knows it, Moriarty is standing in front of him.

"Get away," Sherlock says, through gritted teeth.

Moriarty ignores him. He takes one long look at John, from his head all the way down to his toes. John squirms, feeling incredibly vulnerable.

"I mean it, Moriarty," Sherlock warns and Moriarty turns his eyes on Sherlock, as though seeing him anew.

"Does this bother you, Sherlock?" He half-whispers.

"Back. Off." Sherlock hisses.

Moriarty keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock for a long moment. Then he turns and kisses John.

The kiss is bruising and violent and meant to hurt. John can't breathe for a second, his mind is in shock. Then he attempts to break free, but his tied arms can't reach to push Moriarty away. John doesn't know how long it lasts but he's aware of how it stops, with Sherlock pressing the barrel of his gun into Moriarty's head.

"Don't. Do that."

The henchmen start forward but Moriarty waves them off. He straightens, gun still touching his forehead.

"Change of plan, my love. We're taking Johnny with us."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No."

"Well then, he dies." Moriarty shrugs. "And please don't begin the pretence of not caring again; I think we've seen how quickly that one falls apart."

"I'll shoot myself," Sherlock threatens.

"Then do it. I'm only giving you two options, Sherlock. You both die, or you both come with me."

Sherlock looks at John. He is frozen on the couch, still immobilised by Moriarty's violation. There's nothing he wants less than to go with Moriarty; he thinks death might be preferable. But it's not just his death, it's Sherlock's too. And for Sherlock to stay alive, John was willing to take whatever Moriarty could dish out.

He meets Sherlock's gaze and nods slightly.

"We'll go," Sherlock says, all pretence at cool disinterest abandoned. Moriarty reaches out and takes the gun from Sherlock's unresisting fingers.

"Excellent." He smiles wickedly. "The fun I'm going to have with the two of you..."

John can taste something bitter on his lips. It's blood.


	3. Freezing Point

Sherlock was freezing. He tried to rationalise the cold as a purely physical factor; an external annoyance that the mind could overcome with proper discipline. But the cold was creeping into his mind, fogging the clarity of his thoughts. He made a concerted effort to focus; to marshal the facts at his disposal.

They were in a cell.

They had been drugged.

The time between leaving the flat and arriving here was entirely unaccounted for, due to said drugging.

They were completely at the mercy of a psychopath.

And Sherlock was really, really cold.

John was pacing up and down the cell, feeling the walls, testing the lock on the door. Sherlock wanted to tell him how futile it was but he bit the words back, knowing that John needed to have something to do. He still found it strange how he modified his impulses around John, when anyone else was liable to receive the full force of his impatience. All John had to do was glance at him sometimes, sideways, with that slightly disappointed look in his eyes and Sherlock would instantly regret whatever sharp comment he'd made. It was as if... Sherlock jolted out of his reverie, sharply. The cold was dulling his mind, sending him on flights of fancy. Now was not the time for contemplation.

John seemed to finally run out of walls to put his hands on. His shoulders slumped, defeated.

"Well, that's... yeah." He turned to Sherlock, who unfortunately couldn't stop a shiver running through his body.

"Oh Jesus, Sherlock, you don't have a shirt," John said anxiously. "You must be freezing."

"It's no matter," Sherlock said, waving his hand.

"Of course it matters, here, take my t-shirt," John said, beginning to tug it off.

"Don't be ridiculous John, then you'll be in the same situation as I am," Sherlock said.

"Then you need to walk around a bit, keep your circulation going."

"I would prefer to conserve my energy," Sherlock said. "Don't worry, Jim is hardly likely to let me contract hypothermia."

Sherlock noted that John flinched ever so slightly at the mention of Jim's name, but he didn't comment. Sherlock seated himself against the wall, knees brought to his chest. It didn't help much, but the last thing Sherlock wanted was John wasting concern on him when there were more pressing matters at hand.

Like what Jim was going to do to them.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Minutes passed. Sherlock could feel the cold in his bones. John seemed to be experiencing it too; he was rubbing his hands up and down his arms as he paced the room. Sherlock breathed in and out slowly, attempting to control his shivering. It was not successful.

"Right, this is mad," John said suddenly. "If he thinks he can get us by turning the heating off, then he's clearly never slept in freezing barracks on winter manoeuvres."

"Any army tips for keeping warm?" Sherlock said drily.

"Most involve equipment," John said frowning. "Or alcohol."

"Of course."

"I know. Lie down."

"What?"

"Lie on your side," John said briskly. "I'll lie next to you and our body heat'll warm us up."

Sherlock had half a mind to protest but he was willing to try anything. He couldn't think in this cold and the last thing they needed was his brain out of action. The few thoughts he had were drifting slowly across his mind, sluggish and irritatingly repetitive.

Like the fact that John had not looked him in the eyes since they woke up in the cell.

He allowed John to gently push him onto his side, shivering as his bare shoulder made contact with the cold concrete. There was a slight pause, then John lowered himself down behind, before tentatively pulling Sherlock to him; wrapping his arms around Sherlock's chest. Sherlock reflected that the position they found themselves in was almost like... what was the colloquial term? Spooning, was it? It was not an arrangement Sherlock had ever anticipated or craved in his life so far but he was not immune to the pleasing symmetry of their two bodies (any two bodies of course, nothing special about his and John's, he was definitely only thinking in the general sense...).

Neither spoke for a moment and then John pulled Sherlock tighter into his chest and the cold became slightly less overwhelming.

Sherlock realised he could feel John inhaling and exhaling. It was a strange sensation; he couldn't remember ever having felt someone breathing in such an intimate way before. He suspected, in a different situation, it might have been quite comforting. As it was, Sherlock took little solace from John's consciously steady breathing pattern when he could also feel that the other man's heart beat was far too fast. He wracked his brains for something to say; anything not to leave John alone with what he presumed were some fairly terrifying imaginings.

"So... you really did this in the army?" Sherlock said, deliberately wry.

"Oh yeah." John's tone matched his for lightness. "We just didn't talk about it."

"Don't ask, don't tell?" Sherlock murmured, and thank God, John laughed.

"That's the Americans, not us."

Sherlock felt John's muscles relax ever so slightly, and he was gearing up a random string of facts about current US military policy when John spoke:

"What are we going to do?"

"I'll think of something," Sherlock said automatically, but even as his brain was coming back to life, he was woefully blank on ideas.

"What does he-" John stopped, and Sherlock could hear him swallowing. "What does he want with us?"

"He's a psychopath," Sherlock said airily. "His motives are dictated by a combination of neurological impairments and environmentally influenced-"

"Sherlock. Please." John's voice was quiet, and while precious few people credited Sherlock with any emotional intuition, he understood what John was asking.

"His initial plan was to abduct me for the purpose of analysis, to study my cognitive processes and deductive techniques. And to kill you, for revenge," Sherlock was glad the slight shiver that ran through him could be put down to the temperature. "At the flat, he... he felt he had inferred new information about our relationship which prompted a revision in his evaluation of you. You piqued his interest, basically."

"Because-" John began.

"Because he has concluded that I have romantic feelings for you." Sherlock said, careful to keep his voice as even as possible.

"Right," John said. There was a silence.

"The self-sacrifice thing was what threw him, I suspect," Sherlock said. "Altruism is almost impossible for a psychopath to understand because it contradicts the basic tenets of self-interest and-"

"What is he going to do with us?" John said distinctly.

"I- I don't know." Sherlock said, and he could feel John shift behind him.

"Yes you do. Don't do that."

"John, how could I possibly know-"

"You can deduce it. You know how his mind works" John sounded pained. "I can tell you already have a pretty good guess."

Sherlock thought for a moment. The truth would scare John, could paralyse him, chip away at his nerves. But John was no fool, he would know if Sherlock lied. And he was a soldier; he was the strongest person Sherlock had ever known. If he knew, he could at least try to prepare...

"My best guess," Sherlock said eventually, "is that he will try and use what he believes to be our love for each other to break us."

"How?" John asked simply.

"He'll hurt us," Sherlock said, feeling very tired. "He'll torture us both to see how the other reacts, he'll threaten our loved ones, he'll play mind games, and word games, and any other games you can think of."

"What do you mean by torture?" John's voice was low.

Unbidden, an image flashed into Sherlock's mind. It was a photograph from a file he'd pored over in Scotland Yard, the unsolved murder of an undercover policeman two years previous. Moriarty covered his tracks well, was too clever for anyone to be able to point the finger definitively at his handiwork, but Sherlock had spent the weeks since the pool compiling a long list of cases he was almost certain had Jim at their core.

The photograph showed a man tied to a chair, half naked, covered in blood, dead. It was not the most graphic photo in the files, not the most grisly, but it was the one that Sherlock pushed away fastest, the one that made bile rise up in his throat, sudden and acrid.

The man looked just like John. The fact that the resemblance was entirely coincidental did not help in the slightest.

Sherlock had spent a long time researching exactly what Moriarty did to his victims.

And suddenly John was one.

The shock made him panic for the first time since they'd woken up in the cell. He freed himself from John's arms and staggered to his feet, wincing at the cold numbness of his legs.

"What the fuck," he shouted, "do you think I mean by torture?" John was already getting up, his eyes wide, but Sherlock couldn't stop, even as the rational part of his brain was trying to shut his mouth.

"He will hit us, cut us, burn us, fucking bite us... employ every fucking weapon in his artillery to break us in any way possible! Me? He'll go after my brain, try and make me crazy, get inside my head and use it to annihilate me... and as for you- you-"

John had gone very still. Slowly, he turned and looked Sherlock in the eye for the first time since they'd come to in the cell.

"Say it," he said, without a trace of emotion in his voice. "Just say it."

All of the manic fury that had animated Sherlock just seconds before seemed to drain out of his body. But it was too late to stop now, too late.

"He'll rape you."

John did not flinch. The only indication he had heard anything came from the slight tremor in his hands.

"Thank you for telling me."

"Jesus," Sherlock said softly. "Jesus, John. I didn't mean to-"

"I asked." John said. "I had to-" His face crumpled for a second and then straightened out again. "I had to know."

As the last of the nervous energy slipped away, Sherlock's knees gave way slightly and John stepped forward instantly.

"Lie back down, come on," he said and guided Sherlock back to the ground, once more wrapping his arms tightly around him. They lay for a while; then Sherlock spoke.

"I promise you, it will never get to that point. I will get you out of here. I will find a way."

John did not reply, simply hugging Sherlock closer; burying his head in the nape of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock lay quietly and listened to John's heartbeat. It fluttered like a frightened bird's.


	4. Silk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of many twisted games to come...

John didn't know how long they lay there, but when the lock clicked in the door, the time felt all too fleeting. Moriarty smirked when he saw them intertwined on the floor; for effect more than anything else, John guessed, as the tiny camera above the door indicated he'd been watching the two of them all along.

"It's almost as though you're trying to make me jealous, Sherlock," Moriarty said, mock-plaintively.

"Don't be tiresome, Jim," Sherlock rapped out, mechanically. John noticed he made no attempt to free himself from their entanglement, so he did not move either, turning his head to meet their captor's gaze defiantly. Moriarty sighed theatrically.

"I can't say it's easy to see you with your arms around another man, Johnny. Not since we became so… intimate." He savoured the last word, and John couldn't help a sudden image flashing into his head: Moriarty biting at his mouth, his own hands tied, helpless…

John shuddered and Sherlock must have felt it, because he quickly uncoiled and got to his feet, standing face to face with Moriarty.

"Your attempts to intimidate us are as pathetic as that ridiculous tie you're wearing. Save your breath and go away."

John marvelled at how calm Sherlock could sound, bored even. Moriarty just laughed.

"Better than what you're wearing, my love."

"Oh yes, you're trying to freeze us out, aren't you? Perhaps you've forgotten that I spent the best part of my childhood at boarding school, a place infamous for its cavalier attitude to central heating." Only Sherlock could look haughty dressed in nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, but John was pleased to note he managed.

"Well, that's a shame. Because I brought you this," Moriarty clicked and a henchman stepped out from behind the door and handed him a black shirt. "It's your size, my sweet. But am I to assume you're not interested?"

Sherlock sniffed. "You assume correctly." Moriarty shrugged.

"Fair enough." He made to hand the shirt back, and John got to his feet.

"Wait." He hated himself for saying it. "We want it."

Sherlock flashed him an angry look.

"No we don't."

"Sherlock. You need it." John said quietly.

"Listen to Johnny, Sherlock," Moriarty sang in the background.

Sherlock looked at John, obstinate, and shook his head. There was a warning in his eyes. John knew Sherlock was right to be cautious, but he also knew that if Sherlock got pneumonia, their problems would be ten times worse.

He approached Moriarty, who smiled broadly and extended the shirt. Just as he put out his hand, Moriarty retracted his own.

"What would you do?" he said softly.

"What?"

Moriarty looked at him intently.

"To get this shirt. What would you do?"

John didn't have an answer. Moriarty took a step closer to John.

"What's it worth to you?"

To John's utter horror, he put his thumb out and ran it across John's lower lip.

Sherlock stepped forward, knocking Moriarty's arm down.

"Nothing. It's worth nothing. Go away."

Moriarty didn't look at Sherlock, keeping his eyes on John.

"It could get much, much colder in here," he said.

John's mind was racing. He knew what Moriarty was implying, knew he was trying to push him to his limits. What was the shirt worth to him? What was Sherlock worth to him?

"What's your price?" he said hoarsely.

Moriarty smiled, long and slow. He let his gaze linger on John's lips. Then, his face smoothed out.

"Two hits." His tone was suddenly brisk, and business-like.

"You mean-"

"I'll hit you. Twice. No retaliations." Moriarty explained pleasantly, as though he was proposing a fencing match.

Could he really get off that lightly? Was it a trick?

"Take it or leave it," Moriarty said and Sherlock chimed in with: "We'll leave it," just as John said "Okay."

"John," Sherlock said angrily. "Don't play his stupid game."

"You need that shirt, Sherlock."

"Why don't you hit me instead?" Sherlock spat at Moriarty.

"Those aren't the rules," Moriarty said simply. "Ready, Johnny?"

John nodded curtly. He could barely hide his relief, he thought Moriarty had wanted him to… to…

"Good pet. But first, I get to give Sherlock the shirt."

Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation, then reached out for it.

"No, no, no." Moriarty advanced on Sherlock. "I get to put it on."

A muscle in Sherlock's cheek twitched, but he allowed Moriarty to approach. Slowly, teasingly, Moriarty guided the shirt onto Sherlock's slim frame; doing up the buttons with his long, cold fingers. John clenched his jaw to see Moriarty in such close proximity to Sherlock, but he kept his mouth shut. After what seemed like an age, Moriarty stepped back, trailing one hand down Sherlock's chest as he went.

"I just love the feel of silk, don't you, Sherlock?" Moriarty tipped his head. "Egyptian cotton has its charms, but when it's all-out luxury you want-" and without any warning, he spun round and hit John hard across the face, instantly following the blow with a swift punch to the stomach –"you can't beat silk."

John sank to the floor, gasping for breath. Sherlock started towards Moriarty, enraged.

"Ah ah ah, my love, not another step or that shirt comes right off your pretty back and John loses the game."

Sherlock stopped, with great difficulty. He changed course and knelt down beside John instead.

"Oh, I do like the 'what's it worth to you' game. I have a feeling we're going to be playing that one a lot." Moriarty looked down at the two. "Well, I'll give you two a minute. Then I'm going to show you some of my other rooms. I've got so many games set up…"

He winked and left the cell. John's breathing was slowing to normal, even as the pain was still spreading through his abdomen.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said quietly.

"Yeah."

"That was stupid, John." Sherlock sounded severe. "I don't want you trading your health for mine."

"Could have been worse," John said, and Sherlock couldn't disagree.


	5. Trivia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture and mentions of dub-con.

The second they were pushed into the room, Sherlock knew what Jim had planned. By the time his henchmen had tied the two of them into chairs on either side of the machine, the clenching of his jaw made it apparent that John knew too. Sherlock tried to relax his face into nonchalance and faced forwards.

"I have a little confession to make." Moriarty stood in the middle of the room. "About a guilty pleasure of mine. Something I really enjoy. I'm not proud of it but I just can't seem to stop…" He tilted his head. "Can you guess what it is, Johnny?"

"Torture," John said flatly.

"Johnny!" Moriarty smiled indulgently. "Torture doesn't make me the slightest bit guilty!" He looked at Sherlock. "Give up?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's… daytime television!" Moriarty cried triumphantly. "I just love it! Midsomer Murders, Antiques Roadshow, Jeremy Kyle! Have you ever watched Cash in the Attic, Sherlock? I saw a woman get six hundred pounds for a ceramic giraffe!"

"I assume you have a point, Jim," Sherlock said. The more Jim talked, the more manic he sounded, and it put Sherlock on edge.

"My point, dearest, is concerning my new favourite show: Love is the Answer. You didn't catch that one? Oh, you are missing out! It's one of those dating quiz shows, where they bring couples out and ask them questions about each other, with a delightfully orange tinted host named Lex or Dax or something. And when one half of the couple gets a question wrong, the other gets water thrown on them! It really is amusing…"

It didn't take a genius to see where Jim was going. Sherlock nervously flexed his wrists against the bond around them.

"So I thought we'd try that! Except instead of water I've opted for electric shocks, of course."

Moriarty patted the machine in between Sherlock and John, and grinned. On cue, the two henchmen stepped forward and began attaching electrode pads to the chests of both men. Sherlock glared at Jim, who smiled back pleasantly.

"I'm so excited! I like to start with the electricity, as you probably know Sherlock, but I never had such a fun set up before. This little love connection between the two of you opens up a whole world of possibilities!" With a lazy flick of his hand, Moriarty dismissed the henchmen.

"Enough chatter now. Johnny, you get the first question. What is the name of Sherlock's family home?"

John debated refusing to answer but it seemed pointless. If there was any way he could avoid Sherlock getting hurt… He tried to think. They had talked about it… 

_We were watching television, a rerun of Brideshead Revisited… and I was teasing Sherlock, calling him Sebastian Flyte… then Sherlock said that Brideshead was much bigger than…_

"Oakridge Manor," John said.

"Correct!" Moriarty beamed. "Did he ever take you there, Johnny? You know, I paid a visit, not too long ago. Well I say I, really it was Professor Glynn Harding of Cardiff University," Moriarty adopted a gentle Welsh accent, "who was very interested in the local history of the area." He reverted back to his own voice. "And Glynn was lucky enough to make the acquaintance of Moira, the Holmes family housekeeper. Oh she was full of stories, and ever so eager to share with the good professor…"

"Must have been riveting," Sherlock commented. "Did she show you where we keep the fancy china? Or tell you the amusing story of the time Reverend Crowley's dog got loose in the pantry?"

"Now, Sherlock," said Moriarty, aggrieved. "That's not how the contestants on Love is the Answer behave. We're meant to be exchanging good natured chit-chat. I'd hate to have to go back and slice Moira into tiny little pieces just because you annoyed me."

Sherlock shot Moriarty a dark look, but didn't answer back.

"Question two, then. Easy one for you Sherlock. When is Johnny's birthday?"

Oh God, surely he knew this. Even as he began a mental search, Sherlock knew it was futile, either he'd never known it or he'd been told and deleted it as unimportant. A keen sense of guilt pricked at him, cutting through his general feeling of dread.

"I don't know," he admitted, not wanting to insult John further by hazarding a wild guess.

"Oh dear, oh dear, Sherlock. Someone's not been paying attention." Moriarty shook his head as he approached John's chair. "If you were my fuck-toy, Johnny, I'd definitely have known that. But, alas…" He flicked the switch upwards.

John was instantly consumed by a terrible jarring pain, one that shook up all his senses. His teeth were clenched, he couldn't hear properly, stars were exploding in front of his eyes, it felt like someone was taking a chainsaw to his brain…

Then suddenly, it was over. John gasped as his muscles went limp and he slumped back in the chair. Moriarty ran his fingers through John's hair.

"Poor baby," he said. "I hope you're up to answering another question."

Sherlock was rigid in his chair, furious and anxious in equal measure. And guilty, too.

_Why hadn't he deemed John's birthday worth remembering?_

"What was Sherlock's first pet?" Moriarty winked. "Don't worry, you'll always be his favourite."

John was still reeling from the shock but he didn't have to think hard for the answer. Sherlock had the stuffed mouse displayed on his mantelpiece, much to Mrs Hudson's disgust.

"Baxter," he said.

"Right again, Johnny! You're on quite the roll. We can only hope your luck's rubbing off on Sherlock. This one's for you, my love."

Moriarty paused for effect.

"How old was John when his father abandoned him?"

John's head shot up. How the hell- Never mind. Of course Moriarty would have gone digging into his past, so he could say out loud all the things John never wanted Sherlock to hear. _Oh God._

John decided to take what little satisfaction he could from staring into middle distance, as though he couldn't hear a word Moriarty was saying.

Sherlock kept his face impassive, but his mind was racing. John's father had left? Why had John never mentioned it? Then again, why would the man who can't even remember John's birthday be privy to any emotional details of his life? Sherlock bit his lip. All this time they'd been living together... Did John not trust him?

But there was no time for those thoughts, all Jim wanted was a reaction after all. Might as well go for broke.

"Seven," Sherlock said.

"Wrong!" Moriarty crowed. "He was twelve! That's really got to sting, hasn't it? At seven, you barely know which way is up, but twelve's old enough to know you're not wanted…"

He adopted a serious expression.

"Now Johnny, this is the part of the show where you share your tragic story with the audience."

John refused to look up from the ground.

"No? Alright, I'll do it! Your old next door neighbours filled me in on the whole thing. Apparently, Sherlock, Johnny's old man was a bit of a drinker. Ex-military, all washed up, bitter; classic profile. The Robinsons used to hear him through the wall, screaming at his wife and kids. Then one day, Mrs Watson and the kids come home to find the car gone from the driveway and a one-page note on the table. Did she let you read it, Johnny?" Moriarty asked, bringing his face close to John's. "Or did she send you and Harry to your rooms while she cried in the kitchen?"

John's eyes were blank, as though he couldn't see Moriarty.

"Mrs Robinson thought he might have gone back to the army. Is that why you joined up, pet? Were you looking for Daddy?"

John made a sudden involuntary movement.

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Tut tut Johnny, no swearing on daytime television," Moriarty said gleefully.

"When I get out of this chair-" John began.

"You'll what?" said Moriarty. "You don't make the rules of this game. I do. Which reminds me…" And he flicked the switch once more.

Sherlock watched, sick to his stomach. John was clearly making a supreme effort not to cry out as his body spasmed. Watching him was akin to physical pain for Sherlock, as well as the mental turmoil Moriarty's revelations had prompted. If they got out of this alive, he'd certainly be tracking down Mr Watson to pay a little visit.

_Big if._

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

John was breathing hard. He was on his fifth shock and it was getting harder to bear. He could hear a low level buzz in his ears and his vision was blurring. His muscles and joints felt strained from the tension.

He'd gotten three more questions right and Sherlock has gotten three more wrong. He knew Moriarty was trying to sow division and resentment between them, but he blamed Sherlock for nothing. If they could just get through this…

"Alright Johnny, I believe it's you again! Now, you've been doing rather well, but this one's a bit trickier."

Moriarty was stood in front of John but he turned and stared directly into Sherlock's eyes as he spoke.

"What did Sherlock do for a drug dealer named J.J. Fisher in 2002?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. Of course Moriarty had found out about that, of course. A great fear was growing inside him of the extent of Moriarty's knowledge and power. He knew everything. And now John was going to hear the truth about him, and maybe he'd never look at Sherlock the same way again; those little admiring glances that always left a slight warmth in Sherlock's chest.

He cast a look at John and saw him frowning in concentration. Then Sherlock gazed back at Jim and saw the amusement in his eyes. Jim knew. He knew what this was doing to Sherlock, because Jim knew as well as he did that John had no idea what his friend was really capable of.

"Did he… get him off charges with the police?" John said eventually.

Moriarty actually whooped with laughter.

"What a lovely answer, Johnny! Is he correct, Sherlock? Did you nobly step in to defend J.J. with your brilliant deductions?"

Sherlock slowly exhaled. Better he tell the story than let Jim drag it out. Get it over with.

"I performed sexual favours in exchange for drugs," Sherlock said bluntly. John's head whipped round to face Sherlock.

"That's a polite way of putting it, my love," Moriarty purred. "When really you got down on your knees in some filthy alleyway in Peckham and sucked his cock."

Sherlock flinched. He couldn't help it. He could barely remember that night most of the time, didn't want to. But Moriarty's words brought unbidden images to his mind: J.J. kneading his hands through Sherlock's hair, the violence with which he thrust into Sherlock's mouth, till Sherlock felt like he was choking.

It had been the nadir, that night; the next day he had turned up on Mycroft's doorstep and agreed to everything – to go to rehab, to clean up, to change his life, if only Mycroft would let him in for a shower, for God's sake.

Sherlock didn't meet John's eyes. Could not. When Moriarty flicked the switch and the electricity shot through Sherlock's body like a bullet, he almost felt grateful.


	6. The Shakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I accidentally made John's birthday Star Wars Day. Good times.

John leaned against the cell wall for support before feeling his way down to the floor. Sherlock walked over to the opposite side and folded himself down, knees hugged in front of him.

He had not looked at John once.

"Sherlock-"

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock interrupted, his voice slightly higher pitched than usual. "I should have known those things about you, your birthday and so forth. It was my fault you got shocked."

"Sherlock-"

"Yes, I know, technically the blame lies with Jim – but I pride myself on my memory-"

"Sherlock-"

"I can hardly criticise others for their poor observational skills when I failed to-"

"Sherlock!" John took a deep breath. "We should talk about what happened."

Sherlock was silent.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Jim already told you everything," Sherlock said quietly.

"No, he told me his version. I want to hear yours."

John's tone was gentle, but Sherlock still couldn't meet his eyes.

"I don't-"

"Please."

Sherlock exhaled slowly. His head was urging retreat; better to say nothing and accept whatever scorn John might pour on him, than to attempt to defend himself and still be greeted with disdain.

And yet…

John sounded so sincere.

"It was one of the bad times," Sherlock began quickly, before he could change his mind. "I was… taking a lot and Mycroft persuaded my mother to cut me off financially. I was so angry. I stopped speaking to him and started pawning my possessions."

The clothes had gone first; the silk ties and expensive shirts, the tailored suits. He didn't miss them. But he nearly cried to sell his grandfather's watch, the one that could still conjure up images of the man sat by the fire, pipe in hand, reading passages from Robinson Crusoe or Ivanhoe while Sherlock sat enthralled at his feet.

He had tried to get that watch back, months later. The pawn shop owner had sold it, and couldn't remember to whom. Of all the mysteries that went unsolved in his profession, Sherlock often wondered if that was the one he thought about the most.

"Then I had nothing left, save my violin, and I wasn't that far gone. My regular dealer wasn't interested in I.O.U.s. so I went looking for a new one. I was strung out, I hadn't slept or eaten for days and then I met him - J.J. - and he made me an offer."

It had been raining that night, and he remembered sitting in the alleyway afterwards, listening to the raindrops falling on the pavement.

"I was stupid," Sherlock said vehemently.

"You were desperate," John said. "Addiction is an illness."

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Look at me," John said. "Sherlock, look at me."

And Sherlock finally did.

"Do you think I care what you did? Do you think Moriarty could ever change my opinion of you?"

John's eyes were very bright, and Sherlock found an unfamiliar tightness at the back of his throat.

"You should think less of me, John," he said.

"Never." John's voice was firm.

Sherlock attempted a sort of lopsided smile.

"Didn't take long for Jim to get to us, did it?"

"He'll have to try harder than that," John said grimly.

"How do you feel?"

"Okay. My hands are shaking," John admitted and held them up. Sherlock grimaced.

"Side effect." He looked sideways at John. "I really am sorry, you know. About the trivia questions."

John laughed.

"There's a lot of things you're good at mate, but I don't think keeping track of birthdays is one."

"If Jim had tested me on science…" Sherlock said petulantly.

"What, the solar system?"

"Oh, very droll."

They were silent for a few moments. Then:

"John? Why did you never tell me your father had left?"

John shrugged.

"It never came up."

"Did you… I mean, I would have… or even now, I could…"

"Spit it out, Sherlock."

"Did you not tell me because you thought I wouldn't be interested?"

John looked surprised.

"Well, I mean, would you have been?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding slightly injured. "I am interested in you… the things you say…"

John felt a slight quickening in his pulse at Sherlock's words. Should he have confided in his friend? Sherlock always seemed to dismiss the personal as irrelevant, and John had been wary of laying bare something so traumatic, only to have it fall on unsympathetic ears.

But now…

"There's not much to tell, really. He was a bit of a bastard, then he left. Never heard from him again."

Sherlock nodded.

"Did you ever try to trace him?"

"No. What would I have done if I'd found him? He didn't want us." John sounded sad.

"Then he's an idiot," Sherlock declared. "If he could see the kind of man his son's grown into, he'd be kicking himself."

John smiled.

"Thanks, mate."

Sherlock was lost in his own thoughts for a moment. What was Jim's next move? What else from their past could he use against them?

He looked back at John and saw him frowning down at his trembling hands. Before he had thought about it, he got up and went over to sit next to his friend.

"Here," Sherlock said briefly and took John's hands into his own. He held them tight, and felt the shaking subside a little.

John was looking right at him.

"May 4th."

"What?" Sherlock said absently.

"That's when my birthday is. Just so you know."

John's hands felt warm beneath his fingers.


	7. Sensory Deprivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some non-con touching and explicit descriptions of rape in this chapter. It's a bit horrible.

"How does it feel, Sherlock?"

Jim's voice felt very close, his lips ghosting across Sherlock's ear. It was difficult to gauge his exact proximity due to the blindfold tied round Sherlock's eyes.

He'd openly scoffed at Jim's efforts to discomfit him, but Sherlock couldn't deny how vulnerable he felt, hands tied behind the chair he sat on, completely sightless.

And John was not there.

Of course Sherlock had anticipated that Jim would want to split them up, to play on their individual fears. But he felt bereft without John, and anxious too. In all probability Jim had just left John in the cell, but while Sherlock wasn't there with him, wasn't looking out for him…

Anything could happen.

"Sherlock!" Jim reprimanded. "Are you even listening to me? I'm asking you how it feels, after all the research you've done on me – on my methods, my… predilections," he savoured the word. "How does it feel, knowing all that and knowing that I've got John? In my power, helpless…"

Sherlock did not reply. He felt Jim lean in close.

"You know what I can do to him, don't you Sherlock?" His voice was soft. "You've seen."

Sherlock couldn't present the sudden assault of images in his mind – the endless photographs of mutilations, of mangled corpses; the meticulously written and inescapably weary police reports; the detailed psychological evaluations riddled with phrases like 'dispassionate psychopathy' and 'psychosexual sadism'.

There was one case where a man was found on Clapton Common, stuffed inside a suitcase and- no, stop.

Or the teenager with the pattern carved into the soles of his feet- stop it.

Or the MI5 agent who washed up on the Scottish coast, with his fingernails- just stop it.

Sherlock forced his attention back to Jim.

"All my little tricks," Jim mused. "You must be wondering what I've planned next. Will it be the branding? You know that's a trademark of mine. Or will I get the knives out?"

He felt Jim kneel beside him.

"From a purely aesthetic perspective, even you have to admire what I can do with a knife, my love. And John would make such a perfect canvas. I could carve him up so pretty…"

"This isn't working," Sherlock said, trying to inject as much boredom into his voice as possible.

"Oh but I think it is," Jim trilled. "You've got this lovely little vein pulsing right at your temple."

Jim stroked a finger along it. Sherlock did his best not to jerk away.

"You're controlling yourself very well, don't get me wrong, but we haven't even discussed my favourite games yet, have we?"

Sherlock steeled himself.

"You know, for a long time, I wanted to fuck you," Jim said casually. He was suddenly behind him, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"I used to watch you on CCTV, or sometimes even in person, haring round London, solving your little puzzles, and I just knew…"

Jim began to slide his hands down Sherlock's chest.

"I just knew that one day, I'd have you begging for mercy at my feet, naked and crying."

Jim reached Sherlock's hips, and paused. Sherlock felt as though Jim's fingertips were burning into his flesh.

"And then he appeared, joining you on all your little jaunts, acting the sidekick… and I was so irritated. Who was this nothing obstructing my view?"

Jim's hands pressed into Sherlock's skin.

"But then, I don't know, he just began to grow on me. By the time he grabbed me at the pool, all that 'save yourself, Sherlock' cowboy shtick, well it was just adorable. And then I find out you love him."

Sherlock could feel Jim's breath on his neck.

"I've been looking at him through new eyes, and the more I see – his dog loyalty, all that misplaced bravado, even his defiance – the more John Watson excites me."

Jim laughed delightedly.

"It's a good thing you can't see me Sherlock, I'm blushing like a schoolboy! Now don't get jealous," Jim inched his hands towards the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, "before we part ways I still plan on fucking you until you scream your throat red raw… it's just that I want Johnny first."

Sherlock closed his eyes behind the blindfold, embracing the deeper blackness. He felt weak.

"Oh Sherlock, there's so many things I want to do." As Jim spoke, he ran his fingers gently back and forth beneath the waistband.

"I want to make you watch, of course, tie you up and tell you I'll cut his eyes out if you don't keep yours open. I want to put lipstick on him and have him suck me off so I can see the colour smudge across his face. I want to press my hand over his mouth and force him to swallow, even as he's coughing and gagging. I want to put my belt around his neck and choke him while I fuck him, giving him just enough air so he stays awake. I want to slip a knife inside his mouth and have him lick it until his tongue bleeds, then I want to kiss him and swallow his blood. I want-"

"Stop!"

The word was almost involuntary. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach, bile rising in his throat. He knew Jim was just looking for a reaction, that he should ignore him, but he knew that Jim was capable of all those things and more. He couldn't bear to hear it when he could all too easily imagine it happening.

"Oh, sweetheart." Jim purred, as he began to slide one hand, very slowly, underneath Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. "Is it too much for you? Hearing what I'm going to do to the man you love? How about this?" Jim lowered his voice. "I could let you join in. I could get him to suck you off too, have him wrap his bleeding mouth around you till he leaves traces of me all over you. Would you like that, love?"

Jim's hand found its target.

"No," Sherlock gasped out. His mind was swirling dizzily, a combination of the terrible things that Jim was saying and doing.

Jim forcing John to do… that to him. They would never get over it, neither of them.

"Well, think about it," Jim said silkily and suddenly he withdrew his hands, and pressed a single chaste kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

Even as Sherlock heard his footsteps recede, and the door close behind him, he stayed utterly still, as if moving might be some form of incrimination.


	8. Love Bites

John didn't know how long Sherlock was gone but it felt like a lifetime. He paced the cell uneasily, trying to count minutes in his head, as though it made any difference.

Briefly, he entertained the thought that Sherlock would never return.

Then the door swung open and two of the henchmen came in and grabbed him, pulling him down a corridor and into a dimly lit room. All John could see in the half-gloom was a kind of trolley in the middle of the space, made of stainless steel. It looked vaguely like it belonged in a hospital and John just had time to reflect that Moriarty had probably stolen it from one before the henchmen pushed him towards it.

Close up, John could see it was fitted with restraints. His stomach sank.

John hated being tied down. When he was shot in Afghanistan, they had to strap him to the stretcher to move him. Nowadays, even seeing restraints took him back to that day, the haze of pain, faces swimming in and out of his vision, the crushing and absolute certainty that this was it; he was going to die here, over three thousand miles from home and without anyone to hold his hand.

John didn't struggle when the men forced him to lie on his back and strapped him down in place. He knew there was no point.

The steel felt cold against the back of his neck.

The men left the room and although he didn't hear a sound, John gradually became aware of someone else's presence.

"Where's Sherlock?" he said loudly and Moriarty emerged from the shadows, grinning.

"He's having a little quiet thinking time. I left him with a lot to chew over…"

He moved in John's eye line.

"But forget about him. This is our time."

"Yay." John said.

Moriarty chuckled.

"Oh I do love it when you're sarcastic, pet. It means you got some fight left in you. Makes everything so much more fun."

"Just get on with it," John said curtly.

"Get on with what?"

"Whatever you're going to do. Torture me, kill me, whatever. Just for God's sake, stop talking to me."

"You're not being very nice, Johnny."

Moriarty arranged his features into an approximation of hurt. It looked eerily to John like a shop mannequin coming to life in some bad horror film.

"I just want to get to know you," Moriarty pouted.

"Seems like you've already done your research."

"Oh you mean that tedious business about your father. You can hardly blame me for assuming you'd told Sherlock all about it. What with you two being so… close."

Moriarty looked intently at John.

"I found him, you know. Your father. Do you want to know where he was?"

"No," John said instantly, before he'd even questioned the merits of engaging with Moriarty.

"Are you sure, pet? It was quite the effort on my part. He'd changed his name and everything-"

"I don't care," John interrupted.

"But I think you do." Moriarty drummed his fingers on the side of the trolley. "Tell you what, sweetheart, since I feel guilty, I could send someone to kill him? Just for you? I could make it nice and slow; make him wish he'd never walked out on you."

"No thanks," John said hoarsely.

"But you've thought about it, haven't you?" Moriarty's voice was soft.

When John was little, all his fantasies involved his father walking back through the door one day and sweeping them up in his arms. "I got called away for a top secret spy mission," he'd say. Or "I was kidnapped by terrorists. They made me write that note and come with them. But I got away, and I'll never leave you again."

When John got older, the fantasies changed. They involved him being out somewhere, in the supermarket or the pub, and seeing his father. He'd go over to him and, without saying a word, John would hit him – and keep on hitting him until his father was lying bleeding on the floor.

Some days he hated his dad. But not enough to unleash this madman on him.

"Where's your dad, Moriarty?" John said. "Did he stick around long? Or did he die of shame when he realised his son was a total fucking lunatic?"

Moriarty sighed.

"Oh, John. You'll have to try harder than that to get to me."

John slumped back, shutting his eyes. He couldn't beat Moriarty at his own game; the man would have to have actual human emotions for that to work.

_Where was Sherlock?_

"Poor baby." Moriarty' voice sounded far away, as though he was leaving the room. John didn't open his eyes to check.

_Let him go away, let him just leave me alone._

Then suddenly the trolley rocked and John's eyes flew open to see Moriarty climbing on top to straddle his waist, running his hands along John's chest.

"Hello, pet," he whispered.

"Get the fuck off me," John gritted out, with more bravado than he felt.

"Oh but it's so difficult to keep away from you." Moriarty caressed John's cheek. "I really shouldn't have any fun with you when Sherlock's not here to watch, I know that, but you're… just… so…"

Before John knew it, Moriarty's lips were on his again. And this kiss was more disturbing than the first because Moriarty wasn't biting or pushing, he was gently nibbling at John's mouth, his hand still stroking John's face. It was somehow even more terrifying.

John twisted his head away desperately and, without breaking his rhythm, Moriarty used his free hand to squeeze John's bad shoulder, hard. The shock of pain caused John to cry out and in that instant Moriarty slipped his tongue into John's open mouth.

John's shoulder was throbbing but he barely noticed. Moriarty's kiss was relentless and John was feeling a kind of panic. How far would this go? But if he tried to stop it, if he reacted… there was no point getting hurt as long as he could stand the kiss.

How long would that be?

John felt Moriarty moan into his mouth and shivered, but he did not move away. Then Moriarty shifted his position on the trolley and John realised, to his utter horror, that the other man was aroused.

He weighed his options and went for suicidal. He bit down on Moriarty's tongue with all the strength he could muster.

Moriarty reared back, hand to his mouth. He turned his head and spat, and John was gratified to see blood hit the floor. But when he looked back up at Moriarty, the man was smiling a deranged smile, his teeth red.

"Naughty boy," he murmured, then backhanded John sharply across the face, before seizing a fistful of his hair and pulling John's head back painfully.

"It's not that I don't like to play rough, pet," Moriarty said, bringing his mouth right up to John's ear. "It's just that I set the rules of this game."

Then he bit into John's neck with such force that John's eyes rolled back in his head.

Dimly through the pain, he could hear Moriarty speaking.

"I used to love reading Dracula as a kid. Tell me, Johnny, does he fuck his victims first then bite them, or is it the other way around?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have to go eat now but I shall return to post more soonly...


	9. Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire middle section of this chapter describes a non con incident in case you want to skip it.

After twenty minutes alone in the cell, Sherlock forced himself to sit down on the floor and stay still. He knew he should be using the quiet time to strategise an escape, but the options seemed severely limited. He had surmised that the cell was probably located underground based on the fractured sound patterns he could discern through the walls. The architecture of all the rooms he had seen so far suggested a late Edwardian building. But with no way of knowing how long the drive here had taken, it was impossible to say where in the country they were. He estimated that approximately nine hours had passed since they had woken up in the cell. It was more than enough time for Mycroft to be organising a search, but what did he have to go on? Sherlock could only hope that Jim had slipped up somehow, left some key clue that would lead Mycroft to them, but that seemed unlikely.

Sherlock had the heavy feeling that Jim was even cleverer than they'd ever given him credit for.

The door suddenly swung open and John was pushed into the room.

Sherlock was instantly on his feet.

"Are you alright? Where were you? What happened?"

He moved towards John, and John took a few steps backwards.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," he said. His voice sounded strangled somehow.

Sherlock took a long look at his friend, noting the bruise on his cheek, the chafing at his wrists, and – most disturbingly – the blood on his neck.

"What happened?" he said again, trying to sound clinical.

"Nothing. He just talked a load of shit, roughed me up a bit."

John was looking down at the ground.

Sherlock moved towards him again.

"Let me check you over."

"No," John said, walking over to the opposite wall.

There was a silence.

"What did he do to your neck?" Sherlock asked.

"He- he cut me with a knife," John said.

"It looks like a bite mark to me," Sherlock said quietly.

"Well if you knew, then why did you fucking ask?" John shouted. Then he shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts.

"Look, I'm sorry mate, can we just leave it?"

As he spoke, John felt his way down the wall and took a seat.

Sherlock noticed his left hand was shaking.

"What did he do to you, John?" he asked.

"Leave it, Sherlock." John's eyes were closed.

Sherlock's tongue felt strange, like it was too big for his mouth.

He reached his hand out very slowly, and touched John on the shoulder. John flinched away like Sherlock's hand was fire.

"He assaulted you," Sherlock said through the thickness in his mouth. His thoughts were moving sluggishly, sliding away from his scrutiny, nothing was making sense…

A shudder passed through John's whole body.

"John."

"John."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"John!"

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"I'm going to give you two choices. Because I'm such a considerate lover."

Moriarty held up a finger in front of John.

"One. You jerk me off." He held up another finger. "Two. I jerk you off."

John focussed on Moriarty's fingers until they blurred before his eyes. He refused to take in what the man was saying.

_If I don't react, if I don't listen, maybe Moriarty'll get bored, maybe-_

A sharp slap to the face brought him back to reality.

"I'm waiting, Johnny."

"Neither," John croaked out, and Moriarty slapped him again.

"Pay attention pet, you know that wasn't one of the options. Now I'm beginning to lose my patience…"

John found his voice.

"Go fuck yourself, Moriarty. I'm not playing your little psycho games, and there's no way in hell I'm letting you come anywhere near me so JUST FUCK OFF!"

Moriarty laughed, long and loud.

"You're not letting me come anywhere near you?" He shifted his weight on John's pelvis. "You don't think it's a little late for that, sweetheart?"

His tone was suddenly business-like.

"Now I applaud this bravado, but let's get on with it, shall we?"

John opened his mouth to let loose another stream of invective, but Moriarty clapped his hand over it.

"And before you refuse again, let me tell you that if you don't choose, we'll do both. And Johnny, I can be awful rough when I'm annoyed…"

He released John's mouth and looked at him expectantly.

_This can't actually be happening. It must be some kind of sick nightmare._

John felt his throat closing up.

_How do I even begin to make a choice like that?_

The voice from before, the one that told him to close up shop, to ignore Moriarty and hope this all just went away was still whispering persistently. But suddenly, a new voice kicked in, one he hadn't heard much since he left Afghanistan.

The new voice was only interested in one thing: survival.

_Assess the options, pick the least objectionable, and get it over with._

The voice cut through the confusion in his head, forced him to think seriously.

_Option one. Has to be option one. Then he won't… he won't touch me._

But even as he contemplated it, John imagine the actual physical action of reaching out, of touching Moriarty, of pleasuring the person he hated most in the world…

"Option two," he said.

"Just to clarify," Moriarty drawled, "your choice is me jerking you off?"

John nodded briefly.

Moriarty smiled wide.

"Then say it."

"What?"

"Say: 'I want you to jerk me off.'"

"No," John said.

"Johnny…" Moriarty sing-songed. "Don't annoy me."

_I can be awful rough when I'm annoyed._

"I… I want you to jerk me off," John choked out.

"Louder," Moriarty said.

"I want you to jerk me off."

"And one more for luck."

"I want you to jerk me off," John said, in monotone.

"Well all you had to do was ask, darling," Moriarty murmured, and suddenly he was tugging at John's pyjama bottoms.

John experienced a moment of sheer, unadulterated panic. He had to stop this, to get up off the table and run, to hit Moriarty, do something…

He strained against the bonds and Moriarty said something but John couldn't hear it. Moriarty had started and all of John's thoughts had frozen up, he could only numbly feel the rhythmic stroking of this alien hand.

_This is it. This is the worst moment of my life._

But then it got worse.

Because John could feel himself getting aroused.

He knew what it meant, of course. He was a doctor in the army, for God's sakes. More than once he'd treated a male victim of rape and more than once they'd turned to him in despair and self-loathing to ask why, in the midst of the worst assault imaginable, had their body had betrayed them? And each time John had reassured them – it's just a physiological response, it means nothing, it certainly doesn't mean you wanted it.

Glib easy words, tumbling out of his mouth. He hadn't had the faintest idea of what he was talking about.

Until now.

"That's it Johnny, I knew you'd enjoy this," Moriarty purred, and John was going to pass out, scream, throw up….

He squeezed his eyes shut. The survival voice took over.

_Think about someone else. Pretend you're with someone else._

He thought of Alex, his university boyfriend, with his messy blonde hair and sleepy brown eyes. But no, it was all wrong, Alex would never grip so hard, go so fast. Alex was gentle and tender, he used to giggle sometimes in the middle of sex and it always made John want him even more.

_Matt, then._

Matt hadn't been gentle. That night in barracks when they got insanely drunk, Matt had been erratic, and exciting, and ever so slightly painful… but still, John had always felt in control, always felt safe. It was nothing like this.

 _Sherlock?_

For a brief second, John thought back to one of his early dreams about Sherlock, his face flushed and his long white fingers doing things to John that made him cry out in ecstasy…

But it was just a dream. Sherlock had no place in his mind right now, in the midst of all this ugliness.

John could feel himself getting closer and he gripped the sides of the table and prayed for it all to end. He could hear Moriarty's breathing speed up as he moved his hand harder and John gritted his teeth… and then suddenly, mercifully, it was all over.

"Mmm," Moriarty said. "Was it good for you too, pet?" And he leaned in to kiss John, soft and slow.

John felt like something inside him was breaking.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"John."

"John."

"Sherlock, just stop. Please, just stop…"

Sherlock was horrified to see a single tear trickle down from John's closed eye.

"Did he… did he…" Sherlock couldn't make himself say it.

"No." John sounded very tired. "He gave me a hand job."

"Oh," was all Sherlock could manage.

He was vaguely aware that his fists were clenched so tight his fingernails had cut through the skin of his palm.

John opened his eyes, and they were so full of pain that Sherlock could hardly bear to meet them.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm okay. Can we just… can we just not talk about it? Can we just sit here?"

"Of course," Sherlock whispered.

He eased down the wall and crossed his legs.

He wanted nothing more than to go and sit beside John, to take him in his arms and cradle him tight.

But he didn't dare.


	10. Bile

"Game time!"

John started.

Moriarty's voice seemed especially loud and jarring, given the hour of silence that preceded it. He and Sherlock were still sat on the floor, in exactly the same positions.

Not talking.

Not looking at one another.

"Oh come on boys, look alive!" Moriarty beamed. "I've brought treats!"

On cue, one of his men wheeled a trolley into the room. The same trolley that John had been strapped to.

His stomach constricted painfully and he had to look away, shaking his head to prevent the memories from flooding in.

 _Focus,_ said survival voice. _You need to be in the here and now. Whatever's on that tray isn't going to be pretty._

John braced himself, expecting knives or whips or some archaic torture device that Moriarty wanted to try out on them. He lifted his head and saw…

 _Food._

A bowl of soup, what looked like a steak of some kind, and a chocolate mousse. All as beautifully presented as if they were straight from some gourmet restaurant.

"I'd like to say I prepared them myself, but I'm not much of a chef…"

Moriarty fixed his gaze on John.

"No patience, you see, Johnny. Promise me something delicious and I'll want to eat it straight away."

He licked his lips exaggeratedly.

Sherlock snorted.

"Can we expect a break from this tedious innuendo any time soon, Jim? I'm beginning to feel as though I'm in a Carry On film."

"Oh I'm sorry, Sherlock. Would you like me to be less coy?" Moriarty's eyes flashed dark. "I was simply referring to the fact that very soon I'm going to be fucking John until he begs me to put him out of his misery."

Moriarty's lips curled in a twisted smile.

John felt nausea rising, and before he could stop it, he was bent double, retching. But there was nothing in his stomach to come up, save for the bitter taste of bile that burned his throat.

Sherlock was over in a second.

"John? John, are you alright?"

"Oh poppet," Moriarty crooned from above. "Feeling sickly? What you need's a nice hot meal."

"We're not eating that food," Sherlock snapped. He wanted to reach out and take John's hand but he knew he couldn't risk the physical contact, not in front of Jim.

"I haven't poisoned it, Sherlock." Moriarty rolled his eyes. "That'd be far too obvious."

"Regardless," Sherlock said, still focussed on John.

"Oh, really now."

Moriarty crouched down beside them. His voice had taken on a cloying note of concern.

"I'm worried about you both, really I am. You need to eat. Keep your strength up. Lots of games ahead to get through, after all…"

He reached out and began rubbing circles on John's back. John shivered, but he couldn't muster the energy to shy away.

_Pick your battles._

Sherlock's hands were twitching to smack Jim's away but he knew he should restrain himself. But the sight of Jim rubbing John's back, such an intimate and tender motion…

"We don't want it. End of discussion. Go away."

"Is that how you feel too, pet?" Moriarty was leaning in to whisper in John's ear. "Look at Sherlock. Don't you think he looks tired? Even thinner than usual? Don't you think he needs to eat something?"

_He could be right. Sherlock may think he's superhuman but he needs food like anyone._

_If he gets weak…_

"What's the game?" John said roughly.

"Good boy! See Sherlock, someone's getting into the spirit of things."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it again. _Perhaps there was a way he could secure food for John, even to his own detriment. It was worth a try…_

Moriarty stood up and tapped the trolley.

"Now, every game has a winner and a loser. The fun part of this one is you get to decide who wins and who loses straight away!"

He clapped his hands.

"So. You choose which one of you is the winner. And then that person gets to eat. Starter, main, dessert. And let me tell you boys, the chocolate mousse is to die for…"

Moriarty giggled, before putting on a solemn face.

"The other person is, sad face, the loser. So for every course the winner eats, the loser must complete a forfeit."

"What are the forfeits?" Sherlock ground out.

"IT'S A GAME!" Moriarty suddenly shouted, taking even Sherlock by surprise. He smiled sweetly, relishing their shock.

"So you'll have to play to find out, won't you?"

He dropped his voice lower.

"But I warn you. Once you've started playing the game, there's no backing out. You can't stop just because you don't like the forfeit. You have to be in it, as they say, to win it." 

"What if we did drop out?" Sherlock couldn't resist asking.

Suddenly, Jim's face twisted into something ugly.

"Oh, trust me Sherlock. You don't want to find out what the penalty for quitting is."

Something prickled at the base of Sherlock's spine.

"Anyway, I'll leave you two to consult for a minute." Moriarty said, walking towards the door.

"And remember, you're free not to play. I can just take all of this lovely food away..."

With that, he left.

Sherlock looked at John, who was propped against the wall again, drawing in ragged breaths.

John needed sustenance. And for that he was willing to take whatever punishment Jim could dish out.

"I say we do it." He said crisply. "He's going to make us play his little games anyway, at least this one benefits one of us."

"I agree," John said slowly. "As long as you're the one eating."

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock said. "I'm the one who can go days on end without touching food. I'm not even hungry, John."

"It's not a discussion, Sherlock," John said stubbornly and Sherlock recognised the look in his eyes. It was the patented John Watson 'My mind is made up and no power of earth will move me' glare.

He began to form several arguments in his head, then abandoned them. This called for a tactical manoeuvre.

He sighed heavily.

"Very well, John. Have it your way. I can see you're deaf to persuasion."

John looked slightly suspicious but Sherlock kept a resigned look on his face, and willed his ruse to work.

"Okay," said John eventually, and got unsteadily to his feet. Sherlock stood up with him, and watched as his friend took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was next.

"Moriarty!" John called. If Sherlock didn't know the man as well as he did, he'd say John seemed unafraid.

Jim sauntered back into the room.

"Well? Are we going to play with Daddy?"

John nodded.

"And? Who's the lucky winner?"

"John is," Sherlock said instantly.

John's head whipped round to face Sherlock.

"No, I'm not! It's Sherlock."

"This is interesting," Jim drawled. "Discord in the ranks?"

"No discord," Sherlock said quickly. "John's the winner."

"Sherlock, you said…" John looked agonised. He turned back to face Moriarty.

"It's him. I promise you."

"No it's not." Sherlock said.

Moriarty yawned melodramatically.

"Boring! I think… I'll have to take your first answer. Congratulations to Johnny, today's winner!"

"No!" John shouted. "We agreed-"

Moriarty moved very fast, covering John's mouth with his hand in a split second.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. The judge's decision is final, and no correspondence will be entered into."

The feel of Moriarty's hand on John's mouth shut down the voice of protest in his brain. He felt ill, in such close proximity to the man who…

_Not the time._

"Come along, then. Let's go claim your prize."

Moriarty clicked, and two henchmen came in, grabbing Sherlock and John and forcing them along the corridor, into the same room they had been shocked in.

Only now it was set up as a parody of a romantic restaurant. There was a dining table in the middle of the room; complete with purple tablecloth, patterned china crockery, and a single red rose in a vase in the middle.

John felt so sick he was sure he couldn't eat a bite.

"Sit down, sit down," Moriarty instructed John as he wheeled the trolley in and began transferring the dishes to the table.

John slowly took a seat. There was another chair, close to his, but when Sherlock went to sit down, Moriarty spoke.

"Ah ah ah. That's not for you, Sherlock. I've saved you a place over here."

Moriarty gestured to the now empty trolley, straps hanging by the side.

Sherlock's jaw line tightened for a second, but he strode over with a sneer on his face. He ran his fingers on the steel edge.

"Memento, is it, Jim? From your mental hospital days?"

John looked round at that. Moriarty's face had darkened.

"Well, well. You have been doing your homework, haven't you?"

Sherlock had never told John that Moriarty had been in a mental hospital.

_Suppose there's a lot he hasn't told me._

John briefly wondered how Moriarty could ever have been released. Then again, it wouldn't be surprising if he'd managed to trick the psychiatrists into letting him go.

_Or maybe he made a run for it._

John had a sudden mad image of Moriarty running along the streets in a straightjacket, pulling the trolley behind him.

He felt a hysterical laugh bubble up inside of him and fought to suppress it.

_Don't lose it. Not now._

"I think it's sweet that you kept a little reminder," Sherlock said coolly. "Do you miss it, Jim? Sat by yourself in that windowless room, sedated to your eyeballs, completely powerless? Do you ever wonder if you'll end up back there?"

Moriarty raised a hand in anger, then seemed to instantly think better of it. Instead, he snapped his fingers at the two men waiting in the corner.

"Strap him down," he said dismissively and turned his back on Sherlock, walking back to the table where John sat.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as the men roughly shoved him down on the table. But he couldn't suppress a secret thrill of pleasure at being able to get under Jim's skin.

_Mental hospital may be an angle worth pursuing. Clearly harbouring feelings of resentment, rage, possibly fear. If said feelings can be exploited to-_

"Wait," Moriarty said, returning to the trolley. He leaned over and began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, before pulling it off his shoulders.

"Silk is so expensive, Sherlock." Moriarty's eyes were black. "I'd hate for it to get ruined with the things we're about to do."


	11. Just Deserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit violence and torture in this chapter, my ladles.

"It's okay to be nervous, Johnny," Moriarty said. "I'm a little nervous myself. I mean…" He gestured expansively at the table. "This is like our first date."

His laugh set John's teeth on edge.

"Of course, I appreciate being watched by a half-naked man strapped to a trolley might be a little unusual for a first date."

He winked at John.

"But something tells me you might be the kinky type, pet, deep down. After all, you were in the army. All those men playing dress up, ordering each other about, polishing their weapons. It's positively fetishistic..."

"Is one of the forfeits listening to you talk, Jim?" Sherlock intoned drily. "It certainly feels like one."

John couldn't help letting out a snort of laughter.

"Very droll," Moriarty said evenly. "But let me assure you, my love, you'll know when the forfeits start."

He smiled at John.

"But enough chatter. Let's eat!"

He gestured to the table.

"Soup de jour! Beef knucklebone, parsnip, and thyme. Enjoy."

John looked down at the bowl warily. True, Moriarty had dismissed poison as boring, but who's to say he was telling the truth?

Moriarty seemed to divine his train of thought.

"It's perfectly edible, sweetness. Watch."

Moriarty leaned forward and dipped his finger into the soup bowl, before slowly licking it off.

"See?"

John felt even less inclined to drink the soup.

"I'm not really that hungry."

"Try," Moriarty said. As he spoke, he casually picked up the bread knife.

John looked back at the bowl, then at Moriarty. He sucked in a breath.

"I just-"

"EAT!" Moriarty shouted, stabbing the bread knife into the table. John jumped like he'd been shocked.

"Amateur dramatics," muttered Sherlock from behind, but John could see the worry in his eyes.

Moriarty ignored him.

"I won't say it again, Johnny." The smile was back, but his tone of voice was dangerous.

John picked up a spoonful and slowly brought it to his mouth.

It tasted… normal.

In any other situation, John might have appreciated the flavour. But with Moriarty watching him, and Sherlock tied down, it felt like cough syrup trickling down his throat.

He was halfway conscious of eating more slowly than usual. Because when he stopped, surely it would be forfeit time.

But he couldn't spin it out forever.

"Well?" Moriarty said, as he took his last spoonful. "How did it taste?"

"It tasted like soup," John said. "You fucking psychopath."

Moriarty laughed delightedly.

"There's that spark again!"

He fixed his eyes on John.

"Do you know how much I'm going to enjoy breaking you, pet?"

John swallowed.

"I'm going to take everything away from you. I'm going to reach inside your head and act out all your worst nightmares. Make you bleed. Make you scream. Put out the light in your eyes. Bring you to your knees, in every sense of the phrase.

By the time I'm finished with you, Johnny, you'll be a human rag doll."

John felt like all the air had left the room. It was only him, and Moriarty's eyes boring into his, and the words he was saying.

He dropped his gaze and the bread knife gleamed in front of him, still stuck hard in the table top.

Perhaps he should end it now. Take that knife and stab it through his own stomach. Better surely, than staying alive to be tortured and… and raped and murdered.

_Do it now, then. If you're gonna do it. Get it over with._

John's hand twitched in anticipation.

_Now. Do it now. Do it-_

"Not going to happen, Jim." Sherlock's voice cut in on John's thoughts, sounding impossibly calm and collected.

"Tell me, Sherlock, in what delusional universe do you have any say in the matter?" Moriarty bit back.

"Interesting choice of words, Jim," Sherlock said casually. "But then, you'd know all about delusions, wouldn't you?"

"Oh?" Moriarty said, in a low voice.

"Shall I tell you my favourite part of your psychiatric report? I learnt it off by heart, you know."

Sherlock twisted his head to face Moriarty.

"'Patient exhibits grandiose delusions and inflated sense of own achievements. Most likely employs malignant narcissistic tendencies as cover for low self-esteem, social inadequacy, and feelings of inferiority stemming from developmental years.'"

Sherlock smirked.

"Or, in plain English, poor little Jimmy pretends to be the big I am because he never got enough love in his childhood. Tragic, really."

Moriarty had gone very still.

John sucked in a breath. He was half proud of Sherlock for goading Moriarty, and half furious at his friend's lack of self-preservation.

He risked a glance at Moriarty and found his face unreadable. But then the man rose to his feet.

"Do you know what, Sherlock? I think it might be time for forfeit number one."

The lips were curved, but Moriarty's eyes were ice cold.

John felt his whole body tense, but Sherlock didn't flicker.

"I thought I'd theme the forfeits," Moriarty said, walking over to a corner table half hidden in the shadows of the room.

He picked something up. Sherlock craned his neck to try and glimpse it.

John could already see it.

A claw hammer.

"To go with the food, you know? So… John gets knucklebone soup, and Sherlock gets…"

Without warning, he brought the hammer down on Sherlock's left hand.

An explosion of stars. The shock of impact jolting all the way up his arm. The split second of numbness.

Then.

The pain was unbelievable. In his lifetime, Sherlock had broken almost every bone in his body at one point or another, but never this many at once. Never in such a brutal manner. Never when he had no hope of retaliation.

Despite his best intentions, Sherlock cried out.

John leapt to his feet.

"You fucking bastard!"

Forget the consequences. John was ready to do as much damage to Moriarty as he possibly could.

But Moriarty skipped out of his reach and made it to the other side of the trolley. He held the hammer aloft above Sherlock's right hand.

"Sit. Down." He said.

John froze. He looked at Moriarty, then at Sherlock, then at the hammer.

Then he sat down.

"You've got a short memory, Johnny," Moriarty said silkily, turning the hammer over in his hand. "Need I remind you of the rules of the game?"

"Fuck your stupid game," John growled.

"Perhaps there's one I didn't mention. If you attempt to interfere… the forfeit is doubled."

Sherlock's face whitened slightly. John felt something horrible clutching at his heart.

"Wait…" He started to say.

But Moriarty shook his head. Suddenly he raised the hammer again and brought it down.

Instinctively, John shut his eyes as it fell, not able to bear seeing the pain on Sherlock's face the second time.

But instead of a sickening crunch of bones, John only heard a loud clang.

He opened his eyes.

Sherlock's hand was intact.

Moriarty was still holding it where it had struck the trolley, mere inches from Sherlock's fingers.

"This is me being nice, Johnny." Moriarty walked back to sit at the table. "I can assure you it won't happen again."

He reached out and gripped John's hand, crushing it beneath his own.

"So, behave, hmm?"

He didn't stop squeezing until John nodded.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The main course was steak.

"But not just any steak, pet. This is Kobe beef, from tajima-ushi cattle raised in luxury in the mountainous regions of Japan. It's the rarest - and most delicious - beef in the world."

Moriarty shrugged.

"Or so the chef I kidnapped told me. God, he was a talker. It was a real relief when he finished cooking so I could finally shoot him."

John bit his lip.

"What's the matter, love? Don't tell me you're vegetarian," Moriarty snickered.

"He's probably just wondering what kind of ham fisted forfeit you've concocted to go with Kobe beef," Sherlock drawled from the trolley. "Some kind of Japanese torture? Trampled to death by a herd of cattle? Or perhaps you're going to force me to eat a Big Mac?"

Moriarty curled his lip.

"If you're so eager to get started on your forfeit Sherlock, all you had to do was ask."

He retreated back to the table in the shadows, and John's heart sank.

"And in answer to your questions, no, no, and no. I've decided to keep it simple this time. So John gets a steak knife to carve up his meat, and I get a steak knife to carve up… you."

Moriarty spun on his heel, brandishing the blade.

Sherlock kept his face blank.

"Mundane, Jim," he said lightly, over the thumping of his heart.

"It is a bit, isn't it?"

Moriarty looked regretful, before brightening.

"Still, I'll just have to be inventive in the way I use it…"

John's stomach was twisted in knots. He could not - could not – sit here and watch Moriarty use that knife on Sherlock.

Distract him. Offer yourself up instead. Do something. Do anything!

"Moriarty-" John began in a low voice.

"I'm hearing talking," Moriarty sang out. "When I should be hearing eating!"

John opened his mouth again, when he caught Sherlock's eye. His friend gave him an unmistakeable shake of the head.

John remembered what happened last time he tried to intervene, and closed his mouth again.

He picked up his knife, and began slicing off a corner of the meat, eyes locked on Sherlock all the time.

"Good boy," Moriarty trilled. "Now, Sherlock, my love. Where do I begin?"

With terrifying speed, Moriarty stuck the knife between his teeth and vaulted onto the trolley to straddle Sherlock. He removed the knife from his mouth, slowly.

"Such a perfect canvas…" he half whispered, running his hand over Sherlock's bare chest.

"Get on with it," Sherlock said curtly. He tensed himself in preparation. Jim would not take him by surprise, as he had with the hammer. This time there would be no crying out, no matter what Jim did to him.

Jim started small, experimental slashes on his shoulders and his arms, watching in fascination as the blood dripped down Sherlock's forearms.

It was painful, but bearable. Sherlock blocked it out, reduced it in his mind to a mere pinprick. He sorted data in his head, added and subtracted figures, reflected on loose ends of cases gone by. Jim was but a background irritation.

But then Jim began in earnest. The cuts became deeper, the knife lingered longer, the serrated edge dragging on his skin.

Sherlock bit his lip, tried to suppress any expression of pain. It was getting harder by the second.

He had a vague idea what Jim was carving out letters of some kind, but he refused to engage with what they might be.

He didn't look over at John, but he could feel the other man watching him.

_Don't make a sound. Don't do anything to worry John further._

But he could no longer ignore what was happened. The sting had become a searing pain. His broken fingers were aching. He was aware that his body had begun to shake, but he couldn't control it.

_Don't make a sound. Don't make a sound. Don't make a sound. Don'tmakeasounddon'tmakeasoundon'tmakeasounddon'tmakeasound._

Then, just as the tension in Sherlock's body reached an unbearable level, Jim stopped. He held the knife in mid-air, admiring his work.

"Can you read that, my love?" he said softly.

"No." Sherlock managed to spit out.

"Johnny," Jim called, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "Be a dear and come over to read this for Sherlock, would you?"

Sherlock heard a chair scraping on the floor, then a few slow heavy steps. Then John's face loomed into view.

Sherlock briefly reflected that John looked ten years older than he had yesterday.

He watched as John looked down, and physically recoiled at what he saw. His fists clenched and he turned to Jim with hate in his eyes.

Jim simply smiled.

"I take it you approve? Read it out for the whole class, then."

"No," John said.

Jim pretended to look worried.

"Oh dear, is it not legible enough? Do I need to go over it again?"

Sherlock watched as John hung his head in defeat.

"It says-"

"A little louder, pet."

"It says… 'Property of Jim Moriarty'"

Sherlock felt nothing.

He looked at the utter misery in John's eyes and half smiled.

_What did it matter, anyway?_

"What do you think, Sherlock? Little vulgar, maybe?" Jim grinned. "But you can't deny its accuracy."

He caressed Sherlock's cheek.

"You're mine now, love. Why not make it official?"

Sherlock looked for his mind palace, and for the first time in his life, found it wasn't there.

Jim got down from the trolley, and turned to the table.

"Johnny! You didn't finish your meat!" he cried. "Did it not taste good? Did it need more salt? I can fix that."

He swept the salt shaker off the table and doused John's half-eaten steak.

Then before Sherlock could blink, he swept the lid off the salt and tipped the remainder over Sherlock's bloody chest.

Sherlock couldn't help it.

He screamed.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"Pudding time!" Moriarty clapped his hands. "And this final round has a name. It's called 'Just Desserts'."

He paused.

"Get it?"

"Hilarious," John intoned, reaching for the chocolate mousse even as Moriarty was talking. He wanted it all over with as quickly as possible.

"Not so fast, sweetheart."

Moriarty picked the mousse up.

"I said it was called 'Just Desserts,' didn't I? So, in this round, you and Sherlock both get exactly what you deserve."

"Yeah?" John said wearily.

"And, I think what you both deserve is… no last forfeit!"

"What?"

"I'm withdrawing the final forfeit, Johnny, because you and Sherlock have been such good players. So all you have to do is eat the mousse, and the game is over!"

"And the catch is…"

"No catch!" Moriarty giggled. "I'm being nice again, Johnny! So… tuck in!"

And with that, Moriarty spun around, and upturned the bowl on Sherlock's chest.

"Ta-dah!"

John was once again struck by the mad urge to laugh.

"What is… what…" He trailed off, too exhausted to even finish the question.

Sherlock barely seemed to have registered the mousse that was now covering his torso.

"Just desserts, pet! Not only do you get the mousse, you get to eat it off Sherlock. It's all your fantasies come true!"

John briefly considered objecting, then decided against it. If that really was all he had to do, they were getting off lightly.

"Up you pop," Moriarty said, gesturing. "Onto the trolley."

Moriarty clearly wanted John to straddle Sherlock as he had. John climbed up gingerly, careful not to brush against Sherlock's scars.

Though it was difficult to make them out under all the chocolate.

"You okay?" he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded.

John could see he was still slightly dazed by pain.

He looked at Sherlock's left hand and winced at the shattered fingers.

He felt Moriarty's eyes boring into him, and remembered the task at hand, reaching out a hand to scoop up some of the mousse.

"No hands!" Moriarty sing songed from behind. "In fact…"

And suddenly John felt his arms being bound tightly behind his back.

_Right. Mouth it is._

Not wanting to make a bigger production out of it than it already was, John dipped his head and began licking up as much mousse as he could.

Moriarty had come round to Sherlock's ear.

"Is it just how you always imagined it, Sherlock?"

"Seems rather more like your fantasy than mine, Jim." Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse.

"Still pretending, love? I'll get it out of you, you know. One way or another…"

John kept licking. He couldn't look at either Sherlock or Moriarty.

"He's got a fantastic tongue, doesn't he?" Moriarty mused. "I can't wait to put it to proper use."

"Dream on." Sherlock said, his voice clipped.

John had the sickening realisation that he was lapping up Sherlock's blood along with the pudding. He gagged slightly.

"You had enough, darling?"

John looked suspiciously at Moriarty, like it might be a trick. He had expected to be made to lick until Sherlock's chest was completely clean.

He nodded.

Moriarty tugged him down from the trolley. John found his balance awkwardly, hands still tied behind his back.

"That's it, then. Game over." Moriarty affected an upper class English accent. "Jolly good show, chaps, and all that."

Could it really be over?

Moriarty began to loosen the straps on the trolley. Sherlock attempted to rise, then paled, and lowered himself back down. Moriarty cocked his head sympathetically.

"Careful, love. You've lost a bit of blood."

He clicked his fingers and a henchman re-entered.

"Help him back to the cell," Moriarty said dismissively.

But then he turned back to look at John and held up his hand.

"Wait." He was staring at John's mouth. "Johnny, you're all sticky from the mousse. Shall I clean you up?"

Like in a nightmare, time slowed as John watched Moriarty approach and then start to… lick him.

Moriarty was licking him, all over, working his tongue all around John's mouth, pushing it in between his lips.

And Sherlock was watching.

John made an involuntary movement, but with his hands bound he was helpless.

_Let's face it. You're helpless with your hands free. Helpless and weak and pathetic._

John lowered his eyes.

"When I get my hands on you Jim," Sherlock said conversationally. "I think I'll cut your tongue out."

Jim broke away from John's mouth to smile widely at Sherlock.

"You should really know your place, Sherlock. Especially since I carved it on your chest."

John let his eyes go out of focus, concentrating on the dining table until Moriarty became fuzzy and blurred.

For some reason, the single red rose was all he could see.


	12. Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Lestrade and Mycroft! Happy days.  
> I mean, they don't have any leads, so not super happy days but still...

It wasn't that Lestrade was anxious.

Nope.

In fact, if anything, he was angry. Three weeks of incessantly pestering Lestrade for interesting cases, and then Sherlock goes AWOL on the weirdest case they'd had in months.

Two twins walk into separate police stations at the same time and confess to the murder of their mother. Both are completely adamant that they acted alone. The crime scene, of course, has their shared DNA all over it.

It was like a riddle. But where Sherlock might have seen inspiration, Lestrade was stumped. And so was the rest of the force. Lestrade even admitted that in one of his later texts to Sherlock, knowing how much the detective loved to play the hero to Scotland Yard's bumbling village bobby.

But nada. Zip.

It wasn't so unusual. If Sherlock was lost in some complex experiment, or haring off on some other lead of his own, he often forgot to reply.

But then Lestrade had texted John.

**Can you tell your bloody flatmate to answer his phone? Got a case for him.**

And John hadn't replied.

Now, that was unusual. John was polite to a fault when dealing with Lestrade, probably to compensate for Sherlock's total lack of common courtesy. He hadn't necessarily expected John to know where his flatmate was but…

John always replied.

Still, Lestrade wasn't anxious. Sure, since the whole Moriarty pool incident he'd been keeping a close eye on Sherlock. He still wasn't entirely sure who exactly Moriarty was – and God knows Sherlock hadn't deigned to tell him anything, he'd had to read about the whole confrontation on John's bloody blog – but he knew the guy was dangerous. And that Sherlock's shocking disregard for his own safety required at least one extra pair of eyes on him.

But he wasn't heading over to Baker Street because he actually thought anything had happened. God, no. If anything, he was heading over to give Sherlock a piece of his mind.

And if his heart was beating slightly faster than usual as he hurried along the street, it was only because he was irritated. No other reason.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Lestrade rang the doorbell and waited. Then he rang again. And again. No answer. Where was that nice Mrs Hudson?

_Well, that's it then. They're out. May as well go home and try again tomorrow._

Decisively, Lestrade turned away from the door and took three steps into the street.

Then he spun round and walked back to the doorstep, fumbling in his pocket.

Sherlock wasn't the only one who could "borrow" things without asking. Lestrade had cut himself a spare set of keys to Baker Street long ago, with the vague idea they might come in handy at some point.

The hallway inside was dark but Lestrade could instantly hear the low hum of voices from upstairs.

_So they were in._

But as he climbed the stairs, he realised there were too many voices. Perhaps they were entertaining?

_Yeah, right._

Lestrade could just imagine Sherlock's face if John attempted to conduct an impromptu social gathering in his living room.

_So what then?_

Lestrade paused at the door.

_Could be dangerous. Could be a hostage situation. I should call for backup._

But then, it could equally be perfectly innocuous. Lestrade winced at the thought of what Sherlock would say if he summoned half of Scotland Yard to break up a dinner party. The word 'imbecile' would most likely feature heavily.

_Nothing for it, then._

Before Lestrade could lose his nerve, he slotted the key in the lock and turned the handle.

And found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Fantastic. Lestrade closed his eyes briefly, hoping his final thoughts wouldn't be what an idiot he was to put fear of Sherlock's withering glare over his own safety.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" An accented voice demanded.

Lestrade had barely opened his mouth to answer when another voice cut in.

"At ease, Tomas. He's only a policeman."

Another time and place, Lestrade might have bristled at the 'only'. As it was, he let out a deep breath of relief as the gunman lowered his weapon.

Then he finally got a good look at the flat.

There were people everywhere. Three men were tapping away on laptops in the corner, while a woman was busily marking up a large map spread out on the table. Another man crouched on the floor, dusting it with some kind of powder; while a very attractive woman stood next to him, texting furiously on her phone.

Then his eye flicked to the man who'd just spoken.

He was evidently tall, even seated as he was, and impeccably dressed. He had a file in one hand and a photograph in the other, and his eyes were boring into Lestrade's.

"Inspector Lestrade, I presume?" He said.

"I… how did you- never mind that, what the hell is going on here?"

Lestrade was pleased to hear his voice sounded fairly commanding, even after the fright he'd had, but the man didn't look even slightly intimidated.

"I assume you can take an educated guess, seeing as you no doubt let yourself in here with the intention of verifying the wellbeing of Sherlock and John." The man said, in the same infuriating calm tone as before.

But Lestrade didn't have time to be annoyed.

"Where are they?" He said.

"We don't know." The man said. "They've been taken."

Lestrade felt panic swirl in his stomach.

"Taken where?"

"If we knew that, it seems unlikely we'd be here, hmm?" the man replied.

"Is it… Moriarty?"

"Yes."

Lestrade leaned against the wall to right himself.

"Why would he take them? Why not just- just-"

"Kill them?" The man supplied. "We don't know that either. Moriarty has a certain fascination with Sherlock; we can tentatively assume that he took him for further study. But Dr. Watson…" The man paused, weighing his words.

"I have no data on why John would be of interest to him."

As Lestrade digested this, the man spoke again.

"Unless of course, Moriarty has already killed John and disposed of his body at an alternative location."

Lestrade inhaled sharply.

"Are you feeling alright, Inspector?" The man said. "Would you like a glass of water?"

"You can't just… you can't just say things like that…"

"I'm afraid we must consider all options," the man said, "no matter how… unpalatable."

"Unpalatable?" Lestrade snapped, feeling a welcome anger rising through the nausea. "That's my fucking friend you're talking about; my friend being murdered, and his body being dumped by some madman. Unpalatable doesn't even come close."

There was a short silence, in which several pairs of eyes turned to his.

"Quite," said the man finally. "I apologise. I simply meant that this is a situation for pragmatism, not sentiment. And," he added, "if it helps, I do not believe John is dead. I think it's likely that Sherlock would have found some way to secure his safety, even if that meant John being taken as well."

Lestrade tried to collect his thoughts.

"How did they get in? Was there not-" and suddenly fear clutched at his heart. "Mrs Hudson…"

"Is in Devon," the man said. "Visiting an old friend, she'll be away for the week. Most fortuitous timing."

Lestrade let out a sigh.

"As for how Moriarty gained entrance, it seems he managed to terminate both the guards on surveillance outside the flat." The man smiled grimly. "And picking locks is no obstacle to him."

Lestrade frowned at the man.

"Look, who- who are you exactly? How do you know all this about them? Why are you here?"

"We're what you might call… special ops." The man said. "We've been pursuing James Moriarty for quite some time."

"So this is what… a government thing? MI5? Interpol?"

The man smiled thinly.

"I'm afraid I don't really have time to fill you in on the details. But you may rest assured; we are doing everything we can."

The man made a slight gesture to the gunman by the door.

"Tomas, please show Inspector Lestrade out."

"Woah, wait a second!" Lestrade took a few paces towards the man. "I'm not going anywhere. I am a representative of the Metropolitan police, and this operation will have to be cleared by-"

"Please." The man held one long finger up. "You are wasting valuable time. You must accept that the best possible people are working on this case. I'm afraid Met involvement would be potentially fatal to an operation of this intricacy and delicacy."

"But I-" Lestrade started, and then stopped.

Maybe they're right.

As he looked around the room, it certainly appeared to be a tightly run investigation. And Moriarty seemed to an unprecedented threat. If, by interfering, he inadvertently got in the way of finding Sherlock and John…

Lestrade nodded, defeated.

"Well… let me know if there's anything I can do." He said quietly.

"Certainly," the man said politely, eyes already back on the papers in his hand.

Lestrade cast one last look around the room, and then turned for the door.

_Maybe I should just go home. Perhaps tomorrow I could go to the Yard and dig up the files on Moriarty. If I find anything helpful, I could always come back…_

As Lestrade reached the door, something caught his eye.

John's cane. Half hidden behind an umbrella stand, with a fine layer of dust coating the top. He was hit with a sudden unbidden image of the first time he'd properly met John, limping into the house in Lauriston Gardens, cane by his side. And how, every time he'd seen him since, he kept thinking it would be the last, because surely Sherlock would drive someone as seemingly sane as John up the wall before long.

It was only recently that he'd realised John was sticking around. And he'd been glad. Sherlock was the strangest bloke he'd ever known, and John was one of the most normal but somehow, it fit. They worked together.

And now they were gone.

Lestrade spun on his heel.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The man opened his mouth but Lestrade ploughed on.

"And before you tell me I can't stay, let me tell you that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are two of the most decent men I've ever known, and I'm not sitting at home when I could be helping to find them. And let me further tell you that if you don't agree to me staying, I will walk out of here and summon every officer in the whole bloody Metropolitan police force to get under your feet as much as they possibly can while I go out there and track this maniac down by myself.

Because it may not be personal to you, but it's sure as hell personal to me."

For the second time, the eyes of the whole room were upon him. The man suddenly stood up, giving Lestrade a full impression of just how tall he was. He fixed his piercing eyes on Lestrade, who willed himself to return the gaze.

There was a long silence.

"Very well, then." The man suddenly said, and Lestrade blinked.

"Right. Well. Yes. Good." Lestrade nodded his head. "So what can I do?"

The man gestured to the couch.

"Alfred is reviewing the surveillance footage from outside the flat; he could use an extra pair of eyes."

"Got it."

Lestrade went and sat next to him, and found himself silently presented with a laptop. As it powered on, he looked up and found the man's eyes still resting on him.

"It's not only personal for you, Inspector." The man said eventually. "Sherlock Holmes is my younger brother."

_Oh._

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

John had made Sherlock lie down the instant they got back to the cell, and set about attending to him. He'd managed to clean off most of the remaining mousse, but Sherlock's chest and arms were still bleeding. His left hand was curled into his body, the fingers swelling and blackening.

Moriarty had thrown the silk shirt back in the cell with them, and John had tried to use it to stem the bleeding, but the material was too thin to be of use. He debated using a strip to bandage Sherlock's hand but he knew it was a poor substitute for the real thing.

The survival voice in his head was whispering to him but he didn't want to hear it.

_Moriarty almost certainly has medical equipment. And you can get help for Sherlock… if you're willing to trade with him._

John supressed a shudder at the thought of what that trade might entail. No. No.

He couldn't.

He made a cursory attempt to bind up Sherlock's fingers, but his friend used his free hand to bat him away.

"Don't bother," he rasped.

"Do you- can I- is there anything else I can do?"

"No." Sherlock said.

This close, John could see all of Sherlock's ribs. If they ever got out of here, he was going to have a serious talk with him about nutrition.

Most days, Sherlock appeared to John like some kind of movie superhero. The way he carried himself, the way he shot around the place, the way these incredible, complicated ideas came rocketing out of his mouth. In certain lights - and when John might have had one too many to drink - he seemed almost mythical.

Lying on the floor of a freezing cell, shirtless and covered in blood, Sherlock suddenly looked impossibly fragile.

He was so thin. So pale.

John felt tears unexpectedly pricking at the back of his eyes and forced them away.

He had to concentrate.

Looking down at his friend, John felt an overwhelming protectiveness towards him. The sudden force of it vibrated through him, like some new drug coursing through his veins.

Sherlock needed help.

John got to his feet.

"Moriarty." He called out.

"John, what are you-" Sherlock lifted his head and instantly deduced everything. "Don't you dare. Don't you da-"

"Shh." John said, as Moriarty let himself into the room.

"Miss me, darling?" He said, grinning widely.

"I need bandages." John said in monotone. "And antiseptic and tape and-"

"And everything else to patch poor dear Sherlock up." Moriarty finished. "Say no more, pet. I think it can be arranged."

He smiled broadly.

"John, I don't need any of those things," Sherlock hissed from the floor. He tried to raise himself up, but was unable to get far.

Moriarty paid no attention.

"Another game of 'what's it worth to you' then? I did so hope we'd get to play again, it is a favourite of mine."

"Terms?" John said tersely, desperate not to prolong the agony.

"Hmm." Moriarty appeared to be deep in thought. Almost absent-mindedly, his hand came out to caress John's arm.

John willed himself not to shake it off.

_Play nice. For Sherlock._

"Well, you are asking quite a lot. I feel I deserve something special in return…"

"John…" Sherlock said in a pleading tone, but John didn't dare look round, in case he broke.

"Got it!" Moriarty's eyes gleamed triumphantly. "I want… a kiss."

John swallowed hard, and nodded.

He took a tentative step forward, but Moriarty stopped him.

"But first… I want you to strip."

"Fuck off." Sherlock spat from behind them.

John's hands felt numb.

What was the point of resisting, when Moriarty could have him held down and stripped at any moment he chose anyway?

But it was the idea of Moriarty compelling John to do it himself; it was the fact that the man would get off on seeing John in front of him, forced to lose his dignity.

John felt sick, and afraid.

_What the hell are you making such a fuss about? It's only taking off your damn clothes. How many times have you done this in front of dozens of random men in the army? It's just flesh._

But survival voice didn't help. It was no longer just flesh when Moriarty was watching.

_Fine. Then look at it this way. Sherlock needs those supplies. Are you really too precious to help him get them?_

No. Of course not.

John reached for the bottom of his t-shirt.

Moriarty actually whooped.

"Hope you don't mind, love." He addressed Sherlock. "You never actually managed to get Johnny to do this for you, did you?"

Sherlock's chest was rising and falling rapidly. His voice came out in a pained half-whisper.

"John. You don't have to do this."

But John knew he did. He pulled the t-shirt over his head, shivering as the cold air hit his bare flesh.

"Slower," Moriarty drawled.

John couldn't look at the man's face. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, then quickly kicked them off.

Even out of the corner of his eye, he could see Moriarty licking his lips.

He reached for his boxers with shaking fingers, and then stopped.

_I can't. I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't._

He was on the point of losing it, then he thought of Sherlock. And slid his boxers off.

"Look at me, Johnny." Moriarty said. And when John didn't, he crossed the few paces between them and suddenly his hand was on John's bare chest.

Just resting there. John got the message.

_Mine._

"Well, aren't you lovely?" Moriarty said softly.

John could feel the warmth of his breath on his face.

"I… cannot… wait… to have you, pet." Moriarty was gazing right into his eyes.

The numbness in John's hands was spreading through his whole body.

Then Moriarty withdrew.

"Get dressed." He said. "I'll get your things."

He turned and left.

John only stood for a second before he snapped back into action, quickly dressing. He did not turn to look at Sherlock, could not bear to acknowledge how Sherlock had witnessed his degradation.

Moriarty returned with everything John had asked for, alongside two bottles of water, and a new shirt for Sherlock. He laid them down on the floor.

"Now, about that kiss," He said.

John had almost forgotten. Mechanically he walked towards Moriarty, but was surprised to be stopped.

"Oh, Johnny! I'm flattered, really, but who said I wanted you to kiss me?"

John was confused for a second; then suddenly, horribly, he got it.

He turned to Sherlock, who nodded faintly at him.

Despite how it sickened and terrified him, John would have kissed Moriarty a hundred times rather than be forced to kiss Sherlock now, with him watching them.

It was the cruellest of jokes. All the time John had spent fantasising about kissing Sherlock, about meeting those soft lips, and running his hand through that tangle of curls; and now their first kiss was to be through coercion. John couldn't bear it.

Nonetheless, he knelt down beside his friend.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

"Why, pet? You can bet Sherlock's willing." Moriarty put in from above them.

Ignoring Moriarty, Sherlock gave John a half-smile.

"It's alright."

And John leaned in, shutting his eyes in a futile attempt to pretend that they were anywhere else but here. Back at the flat, in the couch, on Sherlock's bed, Christ, even at a crime scene.

His lips brushed against Sherlock's.

"A real kiss," Moriarty said warningly, and John knew what that meant.

He gently pushed his tongue against Sherlock's closed lips and was relieved to find they parted. Kissing was something Sherlock had never previously demonstrated any interest in through the duration of John's time with him, but he seemed to know how it worked.

In another life, the kiss would have been…

But it was not another life. John broke away, and looked up to face Moriarty.

"Very good, sweetheart."

Moriarty pouted slightly.

"You're never that tender with me."

Then he beamed down at John.

"Oh well. We've got plenty of time to change that."

And with that, he was gone.

John sat back on his heels, feeling impossibly old.

Then he pulled himself together, turning to the medical supplies.

"Okay. I'll just-"

"Wait," Sherlock whispered.

And he reached out and took John's hand.

"It was stupid. To do that for me." Sherlock gripped a little tighter. "But, thank you."

John squeezed back.


	13. Things That Crawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly all transferred now, just one chapter to go. 
> 
> This chapter contains a graphic non-con incident as well as bad language and brief violence. It's pretty horrible so do be warned my amigos.

Sherlock was on the Central Line. At least he thought it was the Central Line, but the train was going so fast he couldn't read the station signs. He tried to peer at the map on the wall but it blurred before his eyes.

"I want to get off," Sherlock said but nobody heard him, because nobody was there, except perhaps the crawling thing at the end of the carriage that Sherlock was trying so hard not to look at.

"I want to get off," he said again, and shut his eyes, and when he opened them again the crawling thing was so much closer and he gasped he couldn't help it but when he looked at it properly he saw it was-

"John!" Sherlock cried because even with the crawling thing's face turned away he knew it was his friend, he knew-

"We have to get off the train, John," Sherlock said urgently. "The man in the black suit's coming." Because Sherlock could see him, three carriages down, picking his way along the aisles.

"Quickly John, untie me!" Sherlock shouted, because suddenly he was tied down, but John-the-crawling-thing moaned, his face still turned to the floor, and why wasn't he helping, damnit, with the man in the black suit only one carriage away?

"Please!" Sherlock was half-sobbing now, and he could feel his throat seizing up, even as the carriage door opened and the man in the black suit walked towards them.

Then the crawling John raised his head and all Sherlock could see were two empty, bleeding eye sockets, and he screamed and screamed and screamed-

 

And woke suddenly, with a hand gently shaking his shoulder.

"Sherlock?"

A concerned face sharpened into focus. John. Bruised, pale, but very much intact. Sherlock almost smiled. Then he remembered where he was.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, sitting up and wincing as the cuts on his chest throbbed with the motion.

"About six hours, I think. I was out too for a bit."

John peered at him.

"You were talking in your sleep."

"I was having a nightmare," Sherlock said. He tried to uncurl his left hand and flinched as the broken bones protested. "I believe upon waking it's customary to feel relief at finding yourself safe and well."

John gave him a weary smile.

"Want me to knock you out again?"

"Hold that thought," Sherlock said as he pushed himself up against the wall. "Six hours?"

"Give or take."

"Why has he left us this long?" Sherlock asked, but he feared they both knew the answer. Jim was planning something special.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"Hello darlings!"

Jim burst into the room.

"How are we feeling? Did Doctor Watson get Sherlock patched up all nice?"

Jim winked.

"I used to love playing doctors when I was little. The other children were less keen, unfortunately. I tell you, you attempt one appendectomy on a schoolmate and suddenly nobody wants to come for tea at Jim's house anymore…"

He sighed dramatically.

"Lucky I've got my very own live in doctor now, eh?"

Jim's eyes sparkled.

"Up and at 'em boys, no time to waste."

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

They hadn't been in this room before, as far as John could tell. It was standard dingy fare; a couple of swinging light bulbs, dirty grey walls, a single boarded up window. In the middle of the room was a sturdy metal chair with arm straps dangling from it, opposite, rather incongruously, a plush red armchair with gilded gold trimmings.

"Sherlock, if you would," said Moriarty, gesturing towards the metal chair. John watched as a henchman tied him down securely, before being dismissed by Moriarty with a flick of his hand.

He then settled himself in the armchair, and clicked his fingers at John.

"Over here," he said, and John walked over slowly.

Moriarty pointed at the floor by his feet.

"Kneel down next to me, there's a good pet," he crooned.

"Fuck off," John said.

Moriarty smiled indulgently.

"So fiery," he said. "I'll miss that, you know. Once you're broken. Oh I enjoy the before and the after, but I will miss you like this…"

He deftly produced a flick knife from inside his jacket, and pressed the tip gently into John's ribcage.

"Please," Moriarty said, with a wolf grin.

John knelt slowly.

He did his best not to flinch when Moriarty began running his fingers through his hair.

"So Sherlock," Moriarty said. "Now that Johnny's in his place, what shall we talk about?"

"Oh I don't know, Jim." Sherlock said airily. "The Kepler–Bouwkamp constant? The Hussite Wars? Or perhaps the amount of time it will take me to dismember you when the occasion arises?"

"What a comedian was lost in you," Moriarty said drily. "No, I was thinking of some slightly more stimulating conversation… Like, for instance, Johnny's gag reflex!"

John's could feel his eyes flicker.

Sherlock was tight lipped.

"My brother will no doubt be very close by now, Jim. I would cut and run, while you still can."

"Mmm, I don't think so, love. Remember how I mentioned infiltrating his inner circle, way back in your flat? Well, I left a mole hanging round, just for security. So I happen to know exactly where big brother is, and it's nowhere near us."

"You're lying," Sherlock said instantly, and John genuinely couldn't tell whether Sherlock believed that himself.

_If Jim did have a mole, he'd always be one step ahead of Mycroft. They'd never be found…_

"Maybe."

A smile tugged at Moriarty's features.

"Doesn't it just kill you, not knowing for sure?"

Sherlock pursed his lips.

"Take it from me, Jim. Mycroft, like the house, always wins. He will find us."

"Well, I better make the most of the time I have then." Moriarty beamed. "Now about that gag reflex…"

His hand suddenly tightened in John's hair, forcing his head back.

"See, he looks to me like he'd be good at sucking cock. But how much can he take, I wonder."

Moriarty pouted.

"I do so hate it when they start to choke on me, Sherlock."

John's pulse was racing; he could feel the vein throbbing in his exposed neck, as Jim drew his head further back.

"So tell me, is he a good cock slut?"

"Leave him alone, Jim."

Sherlock's voice was slightly higher than usual, John noted dimly.

"Not now, not ever!" Jim sang. "I was just hoping you might share any tips you had. Oh I know, I know, you've never laid your pure virginal hands on him, but deducing's what you do. I've bet you've thought about him once or twice; I bet you've made an educated guess as to what positions he likes, what kinks he has, whether he swallows or not…"

John felt like the room was growing darker.

"No? Nothing to share?" Moriarty said. "I'll just have to find out myself then."

His hand still fisted in John's hair, Moriarty dragged him round to kneel before him.

John opened his mouth to speak and closed it. He felt like he was in some kind of a trance, like he was floating above his own body.

"Let's skip the whole tedious business about how you're not going to do it and you have your pride and honour blahity blah blah and just get straight to the good stuff." Moriarty said, unbuckling his own belt.

"Wait." Sherlock said. "Wait!"

"Nope." Moriarty hummed out, draping his belt on the side of the chair.

"I'll do it," Sherlock said.

Somehow, this pierced through the heavy fog in John's head.

"I beg your pardon?" Moriarty said, feigning shock.

"I'll do it. Leave him alone."

"You'll do what, Sherlock?" Moriarty said softly.

"I'll… I'll suck your cock." Sherlock said.

"Well, I never." Moriarty said. "I think I'm blushing."

"Do we have a deal?" Sherlock said, and John wanted to speak up and protest but he still felt so far away...

Moriarty paused.

"It's tempting. It's certainly tempting. But… no."

Sherlock's eyes flashed.

"Why not?"

"Because this way will be so much worse for you." Moriarty said simply.

He turned back to John.

"Jim, stop. I'll do it, let me do it. You can do whatever you want to me, I won't fight."

Sherlock sounded panicked.

"Now you're just debasing yourself, love." Moriarty commented. "I suggest you sit back and try to enjoy the show."

He looked back down.

"Ready, Johnny?"

And he reached out to lightly stroke John's face.

John jumped like he'd been slapped, the trance-like feeling fully gone. He scrambled to his feet.

"Get the hell away from me," he gasped out, and made a mad dash for the door. Moriarty caught him before he was even halfway there, pinning John against his body and dragging him back to the chair. He tried to force him into a kneeling position, but John brought his elbow back into Moriarty's ribs, before making a renewed effort to reach the door. But strong hands pulled him back, and he was spun round to be greeted by a punch to the jaw that made him see stars. He staggered and Moriarty pulled him close again, twisting his head so he could hiss directly in his ear.

"You've had your fun but that's enough now. So if you don't get down on your knees and let me fuck your throat before swallowing every last drop of my come, I will cut Sherlock's fucking fingers off, one by one."

John's legs buckled. He sank to the ground, breath coming in short panicky gasps.

_He was going to have to do this. He was going to have to-_

"I can't." John said, and he didn't even care how much his words sounded like a plea.

"Course you can."

Moriarty's voice was gentle again as he stood over him, unzipping his trousers to pull out his already half-hard cock.

"Be a good boy."

John breathed out, once, twice, three times.

He raised himself to his knees.

He reached out a shaking hand.

Sherlock made a noise, somewhere between a sob and a groan, and Moriarty turned to look at him

"Sherlock, if you don't watch every single second of this, I will do it again. And again and again and again until you do watch."

John inhaled one last time.

Then he took Moriarty into his mouth.

The instant moan that he heard was almost enough to make him retch but he concentrated instead.

_The faster I get this done…_

He didn't even try to fantasise about exes past this time. Moriarty's harsh rhythm, the stone floor beneath his knees, the hands carding painfully in his hair… they made it impossible to imagine he was anywhere other than in this room, in this place, being assaulted and humiliated in front of the one man he truly cared about.

John tried to move his mouth to accommodate Moriarty's thrusting. This apparently did not satisfy the man, who began to hold John's head firmly in place so he could push further into his mouth.

John gagged just a little, and Moriarty smirked above him.

"If you're sick, we have to start over, you know."

John mentally flinched, and tried to open his mouth wider, breathing heavily through his nose. Moriarty seemed pleased, his moans grew louder.

John couldn't help but notice the triumphant glances Moriarty was throwing Sherlock's way, and it made his stomach curl.

"That's it… pet… such… a… good… fucking… slut," Moriarty breathed out, his thrusting becoming more erratic.

John braced himself as Moriarty's grip tightened on his hair, then the man's whole body tensed and suddenly John's mouth was assaulted by the sharp, salty tang of Moriarty's orgasm.

Moriarty pulled out, groaning slightly, then looked down expectantly.

John dropped his gaze to the ground, and swallowed.

He had never felt more degraded and broken in his life.

Moriarty laughed.

"Good pet! Now, what do we say Johnny?"

John didn't venture an answer.

"A thank you would be nice," Moriarty said in a schoolteacher's tone, as he tucked himself away.

Why not? He couldn't get any lower.

"Thank you," John said, and felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes.

Moriarty chuckled.

"You're welcome, pet," he said, and reached down to haul John to his feet.

He kissed him without warning, sticking his tongue deep inside John's mouth, before pulling him into an embrace.

"Do you any idea how hot it is to taste myself inside your mouth?" he murmured in John's ear.

John closed his eyes, feeling suddenly thinner through, as though he might disappear.


	14. Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're all up to date! I promise I'll try to update as soon as possible.
> 
> I am not a massive fan of this chapter as J and S are super duper angsty and possibly OOC... but they have been through a lot so it might drive anyone to act out of character (is my excuse for my shoddy writing)

John remembers a park. He remembers a park near his house and an ice cream van and a tree with a kite stuck in it. He remembers throwing sticks for dogs and rolling in the grass and being pushed on his swings.

He remembers Harry making daisy chains.

He remembers his mother's face, smiling.

He remembers feeling happy, feeling warm, feeling safe.

Then John got too old for the swings and his dad left and his mother cried and Harry turned to drink and he went to Afghanistan and got shot and never felt safe again.

And he's never been one to dwell, but at some point in his life John had decided happiness never lasted. It came and went as it pleased, and the good things always soured in the end. He accepted this. John was a realist. He got by.

But Sherlock.

Sherlock.

He'd let himself believe in Sherlock. He'd let himself believe that happiness could last; racing round London in the day and eating takeaway in front of the TV at night, alongside his incredible, impossible, wonderful flatmate.

And now it was over. Never again could meeting Sherlock's steady gaze be a refuge, never again could he let that voice wash over him as he lay back on the sofa, only half listening and yet fully contented.

Sherlock had witnessed his ruin. He'd seen John stripped of his dignity, broken by a monster. How could he ever see him in any other way?

John felt tears prick at his eyes and he blinked them away, hugging his knees closer to his chest as he straightened his back against the wall behind him. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him from across the room, and he didn't want to cry. 

He just wanted not to be there. He wanted not to be at all.

Sherlock hadn't spoken yet and John was both relieved and frustrated because he didn't want to talk, but at the same time the silence stretched out between them, vast and unbearable.

Until Sherlock broke it.

"This is my fault."

Sherlock was clearly having some trouble speaking, the words tumbling jerkily from his mouth.

"I should have taken him seriously from the beginning. I should have tried harder to put him away, I should have killed him at the pool and damn the consequences."

"Don't do this," John said, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted.

"I knew you were in the path of danger. I should have protected you." Sherlock ploughed on.

"You couldn't," John said bluntly and Sherlock blanched, but John was too tired to explain what he really meant – which was that it seemed like no power of earth could stand in Moriarty's way.

"It's not your fault," John said, closing his eyes.

"It's not yours either," Sherlock said, too quickly, and John's eyes snapped open.

"Who said it was?"

Sherlock looked like he was picking his words very carefully, and just watching him John felt a sudden unbidden fury rising in him.

"Spit it out, Sherlock," he spat.

Sherlock met his gaze, teeth worrying his lip slightly. John had never seen the other man look so unsure of himself, but rather than calming his rage, it only fed it.

He had no idea where this anger was coming from, but all he knew was that it momentarily took his mind off the utter misery that had seeped into his entire body. The anger was strong, coursing through his body like a stimulant, giving him something to focus on.

He focussed his gaze on Sherlock, who had finally opened his mouth to speak.

"It is natural in a situation like… that… to feel a sense of…"

"A sense of what?" John said dangerously.

"Shame," Sherlock said softly, and John sprang onto his feet like he'd been electrified.

"You fucking… you don't have any fucking idea… and don't- DON'T JUST SIT THERE AND MAKE YOUR LITTLE DEDUCTIONS ABOUT ME AND TELL ME HOW I'M FEELING-"

"John. John. John." Sherlock's voice was insistent. "I don't have to deduce. I already know."

John knew he'd regret what he was about to say but his body was all rage and fire and he felt like he'd explode if he didn't just-

"You don't know! You agreed! You let him do it, just to get your fucking fix!"

The vicious satisfaction John took from watching Sherlock's face shutter down ebbed away as quickly as it came. And quick, nauseating guilt took its place.

How could he say that? Especially as it was the last thing he thought.

John kneaded his hands into his eyes, wanting to apologise but not having a clue where to begin. He couldn't think straight, not with Sherlock here, and Moriarty out there, and that sour taste still acrid on his tongue…

He sank back down to the floor again, opposite Sherlock, head in his hand. He was preparing his apology when Sherlock spoke.

"I shaved my head."

John looked up.

"After J.J., I shaved my head. Because he touched my hair, he ran his hands through it, pulled my head back with it. And I couldn't bear to see it in the mirror, or feel it with my own hands, because it reminded me of him and what I'd done."

Sherlock's tone was clear and steady.

"And to this day, I still spend as little time as possible looking at or touching my hair because it will never stop reminding me of that night, or making me feel..."

Sherlock looked straight into John's eyes.

"…ashamed."

A sudden sensory assault hit John; Moriarty looming over him, the cold of the stone beneath his knees, hands holding his head in place to thrust harder into his aching mouth.

John could feel a lump growing in his throat, he knew he was perilously close to losing it, but he needed to tell Sherlock before he lost all control…

"I'm so– I'm so sorry…"

And then John was crying and there was nothing he could do except feel his shoulders shake and his cheeks grow wet as a terrible howling grief rended his body.

He felt a warmth at his side and suddenly Sherlock was there and he was holding him and despite the fact it was so unlike anything that had happened between them before, it felt perfectly natural for John to bury his face in Sherlock's chest and weep.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

John's sobs were subsiding but Sherlock had no intention of letting him go any time soon. He'd never felt such an urge to be close to someone, not just mentally but physically, to literally protect them with his entire body.

Holding John, feeling him shake, watching the strongest man he'd ever known break down made Sherlock want to scream and shout, but also to just stay here like this, as long as he could, with his arms around his friend.

Sherlock had nearly broken down himself, in that room. Watching as Jim…

He would have traded himself for John a thousand times over. Let Jim do his worst to him. He would do anything rather than watch that again. It had been akin to a physical pain, a knife twisting in his gut as he witnessed Jim dragging his pleasure from John.

Sherlock had never known such pure hate before now. He wanted to eviscerate Jim, to take him apart bone by bone and drag a serrated knife across that wicked skin until Jim screamed.

He subconsciously hugged John closer to him, feeling the wiry strength in his friend's body. John had finally grown still, sobs ceasing to wrack his body, but he stayed pressed into Sherlock's chest, eyes closed.

Sherlock remembered the first time he realised he wanted to kiss John. They were walking home from dinner after a successful case and the mood had been light because the missing child had been found, alive and well, and even Sherlock couldn't fail to appreciate the happy ending for once.

And he doesn't remember exactly what John was saying that made him laugh so hard, something about Anderson and a mud splatter fetish, but he remembers looking at John and feeling a sudden pulse through his stomach that had nothing to do with amusement at John's joke and everything to do with the way John's eyes were shining. And he imagined pressing his lips on John's for the briefest of moments and the unfamiliar fantasy shocked him, made him feel giddy and light headed. Sherlock didn't want to get close to other people. He wanted to keep his distance. But something about John…

Sherlock almost regretted feeling this way about John, when Jim had found such a horrifying way to use it to his advantage. But he couldn't fully regret it, not when he looked down at John in his arms, shattered but still utterly and completely brilliant.

"I didn't mean what I said," John suddenly whispered, and he's so muffled by Sherlock's body that he almost doesn't hear him.

"I know," Sherlock replied.

There's a long pause, and then:

"I'm scared, Sherlock."

John's voice was no longer shaking, he was stating a fact, clear as day, almost daring Sherlock to make fun of him.

"You'd be a sociopath if you weren't." Sherlock said.

John shifted slightly.

"Is that your way of telling me you're not scared?"

"No," Sherlock said simply, and John seemed to understand because he sank back into Sherlock's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is for now! All feedback will be most gratefully received, including concrit. Much love.


	15. Stimulus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Strong non-con incident, digital penetration, forced orgasm, verbal humiliation
> 
> So Sherlock Series 3 came back before this fic did. I am so ashamed I don’t even know what to say. Bad Polomonkey. 0/10, must try harder. 
> 
> Seriously though, I really apologise. I lost my inspiration for this fic and I didn’t know how to get it back. But my block is gone and I’m back in action now. Thanks so much for having read and commented on this. Sorry to let you down and I will endeavour to make it up to you!
> 
> I’ve come back with quite a nasty chapter for some reason :( read at your own discretion.

Jim didn’t come to the cell this time. He left it to the henchmen to drag them out and frogmarch them down the corridor. Sherlock had spent the last half hour since John had fallen silent trying to strategise.

He knew events were escalating. Jim didn’t have patience enough to defer his gratification much longer; and Sherlock feared that his latest assault on John was just the tip of the iceberg. Jim seemed to be heading into some kind of frenzy and Sherlock could not bear to watch another attack on John. 

It had been the worst moment of his life. He thought nothing could compare to J.J., but it turned out seeing the person you loved in pain was more terrible than anything he’d ever experienced. 

John had looked so…

He shook his head fiercely, trying to collect his thoughts. He had to make a plan. The way things stood now, there were three probable outcomes.

The first was that Mycroft would rescue them. This seemed the most likely of the scenarios at this point, considering his brother’s vast resources and capabilities.

The second was that he would get them out. Either by trickery or brute force or… or bargaining. If he could get Jim to let John go, he would happily stay behind.

The third was that they’d die here. Or John would die here and Sherlock would be forced to aid a madman in his quest for world domination. 

Outcome three was unthinkable. Outcome one was beyond his control. Therefore, outcome two was his only viable focus. 

Jim was smart but he had to be smarter. He had to manipulate him somehow; take the focus off John.

As it transpired, he needn’t have worried. This time Jim had only eyes for him.

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Are you feeling neglected Sherlock?” Jim’s voice echoed off the stony walls of the room. It was a room they hadn’t been in before, Sherlock noted, not that the realisation was worth much.

“I have been awfully focused on Johnny. Thrill of a new toy, you know? But I’d hate for you to feel abandoned, darling.”

Sherlock was bound to a chair next to the hospital trolley from before. He shifted uneasily and looked across the room.

John was seated on a metal chair opposite him, hands tied behind his back. His face was ashen, blank. He hadn’t yet reacted to anything Jim had said, as though he couldn’t hear him.

As a tactic, it was useless, Jim loved chasing a reaction. But Sherlock suspected it wasn’t a tactic at all, simply an automatic defence mechanism on the part of John’s traumatised psyche. Slowly but surely, John was breaking down.

It made his heart hurt.

Jim had stopped behind John now and began idly running his fingers through John’s hair.

“It’s funny, how different you are. Johnny here’s been around the block a few times, and I like that. You, Sherlock, have been precisely nowhere and I like that too.”

Sherlock had the sinking feeling Jim wasn’t talking about life experience.

“From our little dalliance earlier, I think I can safely deduce that wasn’t your first time on your knees,” Jim crooned in John’s ear. 

John didn’t even flinch, and Sherlock wondered if he was aware of what was happening.

“But you, lovely,” Jim said, leaving John’s side to approach Sherlock. “You… are untouched. Pure. Virginal.”

Jim drew the words out sensually, rolling his tongue around them. Sherlock’s heart began to beat faster.

“Other than our good friend J.J., have you any experience at all?”

Images flashed through Sherlock’s mind; a girl kissing him drunkenly at a party when he was fifteen, a fumbled hand job from his housemate Victor in the second year of university. A kiss from John, barely twelve hours ago, the hard stone floor beneath him and Jim’s gaze upon them.

“Sexual relations hold little interest for me,” Sherlock said, trying his best to sound imperious.

Jim shook his head in reproach.

“But how do you know? With no experiential evidence, with no first-hand knowledge?”

“You don’t have to fall off a cliff to know it hurts,” Sherlock said archly.

Jim clucked his tongue.

“I must say, I’m disappointed love. I thought you were a scientist. Where’s your data, where’s your research? Your academic rigour? I thought you wanted to know everything.”

“Sex is not exactly cold fusion, is it?” Sherlock sneered. “I think I’m safe to draw my own conclusions.” 

“I think you’re being a little hasty, love. Luckily for you, I’m a scientist myself.”

Jim turned to wink at John.

“Amateur, I admit, but still. I’ve actually been conducting a few experiments of my own. Would you like to know my research topic, Sherlock?”

“Hot air?” Sherlock said flatly.

“Stimulus!” Jim beamed. “I find myself very interested in observing how test subjects react to stimulation of all kinds. Pleasurable and painful. Nice and nasty. And now I have an ideal lab rat!”

He leaned over Sherlock’s chair, face close to his.

“You’re a rare commodity, my darling. Everything I subject you to, you’ll be feeling for the first time. Every touch, every caress. All brand new. You’re a blank slate for me to write on…”

He suddenly released the straps on Sherlock’s hands, smoothly backing away to stand next to John before Sherlock could even get to his feet.

Sherlock wasn’t surprised to see the knife pressed against John’s throat but he still gritted his teeth.

“Strip, Sherlock!” Jim sang out. “Standard procedure for all test subjects, you understand.”

There was no need to make an explicit threat; the hovering knife was more than enough. Sherlock removed his clothes without ceremony, knowing that Jim would prey on any sign of discomfort. 

He still felt horribly exposed though, standing in front of Jim like this. And John… The circumstances in which he had desired John to see him unclothed had been entirely different.

But he kept his back straight and his face clear of reaction as Jim approached with a deliberately lascivious smirk on his face, knife still firmly in hand.

Sherlock’s chest was wrapped around with bandages, covering the scars Jim had left. Gently, Jim unravelled the material until Sherlock was fully bare. He smiled at the words cut into Sherlock’s body; like Sherlock was some kind of canvas for his art.

“You’re like a china doll,” he breathed, trailing a hand down Sherlock’s arm. “Such a waste to hide yourself from the touch of others. Such a waste…”

The touch made Sherlock’s skin crawl but he didn’t make a sound, even when Jim pushed him down onto the trolley on his back and strapped him firmly in place.

The metal was cold against his skin, but it didn’t matter because he felt heated all over, his skin prickling.

Jim gave him a lingering look, eyes roving over every inch of him. Then he discarded the knife and climbed onto the trolley to straddle Sherlock.

He sat there for a minute, just staring into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock tried to use the time to steel himself. He wanted to switch off, to shut his thoughts down and let his mind wander. But his brain wasn’t cooperating. It was distracting him, whispering about pain and violation and John being there to witness it…

He snapped back to the situation in hand as Jim finally made his move. 

“Let’s start at the top,” Jim murmured and pressed his lips to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t turn his head, but he did clamp his lips together, preventing Jim’s nudging tongue from finding a way in.

He should have known that Jim would play dirty. Without warning, Jim reached down and squeezed his cock viciously. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp at the pain and Jim took the opportunity to force his tongue into Sherlock’s slightly parted mouth.

Sherlock felt sick. Physical pain, while undeniably unpleasant, was mostly bearable. It was no picnic (the throb in his tightly bandaged hand attested to that), but he could survive it. 

This was different.

The very feel of someone else’s tongue in his mouth felt inalienably wrong. He’d felt the same when he was fifteen at the party. Foreign saliva mixing with one’s own, the slug like feel of an unfamiliar tongue, it was all faintly grotesque to him.

When John had kissed him in the cell… that hadn’t been grotesque. Sherlock didn’t know why, but something about John’s mouth on his had felt natural somehow. Right, in some indescribable way. 

Jim’s kiss made him want to gag. But he kept a tight control on himself, knowing that he couldn’t crack now, right at the beginning.

“Hmm,” Jim mused when he finally broke the kiss. “Not bad at all, Sherlock. A little nervous on your end, but that’ll pass.”

His eyes swept down Sherlock’s body.

“No arousal yet, I see. I’ll try not to take it to heart.”

Then Jim was sliding his hands down Sherlock’s chest, stopping at his nipples. The scars started directly below them and Jim ran a loving hand over the words, before bending to blow gently on Sherlock’s chest.

He tweaked one nipple then began rubbing at them both. Then, horrifyingly, he bent his head to suck at one, swirling his tongue around it.

Sherlock could feel his nipples peak and stiffen. An expected physiological reaction; Sherlock told himself there was no need to feel ashamed, ignoring the spasm of fear uncurling in his stomach.

Jim seemed satisfied. 

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Then he reached out and twisted Sherlock’s right nipple harshly, eliciting a sharp cry.

Jim giggled and Sherlock closed his eyes for a second to compose himself. He’d been taken by surprise, but he shouldn’t have made a sound. It only fed Jim's sadism. 

Unbidden, his gaze flicked over to John. The other man’s face was still blank but Sherlock was sure that John’s body had tensed up, a sign that perhaps he was more aware than he looked.

Sherlock hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d much rather John didn’t see this.

Jim hummed softly as he trailed his hands down Sherlock’s body. He lingered on his lower stomach, smiling slightly.

“All this virgin territory. I feel like Columbus. The first person to conquer you.”

Sherlock would have laughed at the inapt metaphor, if he hadn’t felt so tense.

Jim produced a small bottle of lube from his pocket, and proceeded to squirt a small amount on his hand. Sherlock knew what was coming next as Jim snaked his hand downwards. 

But instead of reaching for his cock like Sherlock anticipated, he slipped his hand underneath, exploring with his fingers until he found what he was looking for.

Sherlock bit back a gasp as Jim’s finger circled round his hole, cool and slick. He found himself keeping completely still, hoping that the man was only threatening him, trying to unnerve him. 

If he kept completely still, if he didn’t rile him…

Jim leaned in, his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear.

“I bet you don’t even masturbate, do you? Not even on long, lonely nights with John in the next bedroom; nights when frustration overwhelms you and you want to feel something, anything, just this once. But you don’t. Because you like to think that you’re a machine, a superior being, above such petty concerns as humdrum human sexuality.

Guess what, my love? You’re not.”

As the last word left his mouth, Jim thrust his finger violently inside Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t help but whimper in pain at the sudden invasion; like a blunt instrument had been thrust into him. Physically, it throbbed; emotionally he felt violated beyond belief. Jim was grinning down at him, dark and wicked.

“It’s only one finger, darling! How are you going to cope when I shove my whole fist up there?”

Sherlock flinched, unable to disguise his reaction and Jim laughed.

“Don’t worry; we can save that for another day. For now, let’s see if we can…”

Jim withdrew momentarily, then thrust back inside with two fingers. Sherlock’s back arched in agony, though he managed to bite back the cry at the last minute.

“There we are, that’s a good boy,” Jim said soothingly, stroking the hair back from Sherlock’s damp forehead. 

He pressed a kiss to his head, before casting his eyes down to Sherlock’s limp cock and tutting.

“We better do something about that,” he murmured and nausea rose through Sherlock’s body as he realised Jim’s fingers were moving around inside him.

Then Jim took his cock in hand and began stroking. 

Sherlock could almost bear the manual stimulation, but being penetrated at the same time was too much. He could feel sweat tricking down his back; hear the pounding of his heart in his ears. His skin was even hotter than before and the scars on his chest were stinging. 

It was horrible and painful and disgusting. And then Jim’s finger brushed up against something that sent a frisson through Sherlock. 

Again Sherlock told himself that arousal was an expected physiological response. The prostate was a source of sexual pleasure for most men. But it was harder to believe it this time with the heady mix of fear and pain and arousal coursing through his veins. He felt over-sensitised; every nerve ending in his body seemed to be screaming out at the same time. He found himself bucking up off the table, trying to loosen the damn straps so he could get away somehow, but Jim just laughed.

“Easy, darling, I can go faster if you want.”

Jim began stripping Sherlock’s cock in earnest. Sherlock realised to his horror that he was half-hard.

“No-” he forced out against his better judgment. “Just stop… I don’t want-”

“You don’t want this? Why do you lie to me, Sherlock, when your body tells me the truth?”

Jim smiled beatifically down at him.

“Look at you, all desperate and needy. Practically rutting yourself against my hand. Is it possible for a virgin to be a slut? Because I think that’s what you are.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the words, shame washing over him in spite of himself.

_Stop. You’re better than this. He’s just trying to wind you up. Get yourself together._

But Sherlock couldn’t get himself together. It was all too much; Jim’s fingers inside him and his hand tugging at his cock, thumbing the slit. 

Suddenly Jim wrenched his fingers out again and waggled them at Sherlock.

“Are you ready for a third, love?”

“No,” Sherlock gasped, abandoning his attempts at dignity. “Please, no more.”

His head was spinning, he felt like he had pins and needles all over, he couldn’t take any more…

“But Sherlock, you need to be prepared,” Jim said, mock concerned. “I’d hate to hurt you when I finally get my cock inside you.”

Sherlock just shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as Jim increased the speed of his strokes.

“Very well,” Jim said softly. “I’ll let you off… if you come in thirty seconds.”

Sherlock panicked. Every inch of him was fighting against being aroused, and now he had to turn that around to avoid further pain? 

He kept his eyes shut, pretending it wasn’t Jim palming his cock; pretending he was on his own and it was just another experiment. Like all the others he’d conducted back in Baker Street, just a scientific test. He needed to make himself ejaculate so that’s what he was doing, he was touching himself in his own flat, and when he was successful, he would record the results and then he would be able to make his deductions like he always did, and everything was fine, it was a perfectly normal experiment…

Jim stuck two fingers suddenly back inside him. Sherlock came with a shout.

He lay there for a few moments, breathing through his orgasm. It was not the crashing wave of pleasure that literature had described; more like a sudden release of unbearable pressure. Sherlock did not feel relieved or relaxed; he felt weak and humiliated.

Jim clambered down off the table and grabbed a washcloth. He approached Sherlock, triumphant in victory.

“Sherlock’s first orgasm! What a momentous occasion.”

Jim regarded him for a second.

“You do make quite a sight, you know. All flushed and spent and freshly fucked. It suits you.”

He leaned forward to dip a finger in the quickly drying pool of come on Sherlock’s stomach.

“Want to taste?”

Sherlock turned his head away in disgust. Jim shrugged and licked his finger clean.

He then wiped Sherlock down with the washcloth, making sure to dip between his legs and cleanse him thoroughly.

For maximum humiliation, Sherlock thought bitterly.

He then removed the straps and Sherlock got to his feet. He thought vaguely about taking a swing at Jim, doing something, anything, but he was too exhausted to move properly. He silently accepted his pile of clothes back and dressed himself mechanically. Something pricked at his eye and he scrubbed at it furiously.

Behind him, Jim was speaking to John.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t have him first, pet. But I’ll make sure you get a chance, don’t worry. Everyone gets to play.”

Quite abruptly, Sherlock turned his head and was sick all over the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Mycroft are back next chapter. The plot is advancing, I promise, even if it doesn’t seem like it! Thanks very much for reading.


	16. Empty Houses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person and I have no excuse. But I'm gonna estimate right now that this fic will probably only have 3 or 4 more chapters so there is light at the end of the tunnel! Dim light. A low energy bulb, possibly.
> 
> To anyone still reading, my genuine gratitude. You deserve much better than what I give you.

_Two days._

Greg Lestrade hadn’t bitten his nails since he was seventeen years old but, as he watched the minutes tick agonisingly by, he found his hand drifting to his mouth more and more.

_Two days._

It was too long. Far too long to be at someone like Moriarty’s mercy.

“Nasty habit, that,” came a voice from behind him, and God he could hear Sherlock in it, the same perfectly pitched superciliousness. 

But it wasn’t Sherlock, and turning to see the expressionless face of his older brother was cold comfort indeed.

“There are worse vices,” he said briefly. He didn’t want to speak to Mycroft unless it was about a lead on the case. He found the man peculiarly unsettling, and not just because he reminded him of his missing friend. 

“Indubitably,” Mycroft said politely. “But I wouldn’t whittle your fingers away just yet.”

Lestrade instantly perked up.

“You’ve found something?”

“Two somethings, in fact. Two possible locations for where they’re being kept.”

He beckoned Lestrade away from the stairwell and back into the flat, where the rest of the team were crowded around a laptop showing a split screen of two aerial views. 

Mycroft gestured to a muscular blonde woman sat by the laptop and she turned to face Lestrade.

“This is a manor house near Ulverston in the Lake District,” she said brusquely, stabbing at the right hand side of screen with one stubby finger. “Two weeks ago locals reported the sound of a disturbance – when the police arrived, everything seemed fine and the housekeeper told them the owners had gone on a cruise. It’s been quiet since then.”

Lestrade couldn’t help but feel he was missing something from that story, but the woman was already barrelling on, tapping the left side of the screen.

“Stately home in Northumberland, currently unoccupied due to disrepair, not scheduled to be refurbed by the National Trust until next year. Some kids playing in the grounds last week swore they saw people moving around inside the house, they sent one officer down to check and it was empty.”

Mycroft looked at Lestrade expectantly, as though it was completely obvious that one of those two places had to be concealing Moriarty. Personally, Lestrade thought the evidence presented was about as compelling as the case for Sherlock and John being kept in his own garden shed. Sounds of disturbance? Shadows inside empty houses? There were a hundred calls to the police a day like that.

“The question is,” Mycroft said quietly, “which of these two it is.”

“The stately home,” said Tomas decisively. “We know Moriarty likes glamour and those surroundings would appeal to his sense of the dramatic.” 

“I think the Lake District, it’s much less conspicuous,” the blonde woman argued. “I know he likes drawing attention to himself but for a job like this, he needs to fly under the radar.”

There was a short pause.

“I agree with Tomas,” Mycroft said. “We’ll take Northumberland first, and then go back west to Ulverston if we’re wrong.”

The blonde woman huffed a sigh but didn’t argue.

“Can’t we hit both at once?” Lestrade suggested. “Surely that’d be the most fool proof-"

“We don’t have enough operatives,” Mycroft said.

“Can’t you… get some more?” Lestrade said a little weakly, but he was confused. Whatever Mycroft’s actual job was, he clearly had no difficulty commanding an expert task force on extremely short notice, so getting some extra manpower couldn’t be so hard, surely.

“This operation is off the books,” Mycroft said shortly. “I only trust a certain amount of people with this information, and they’re all in this room right now.”

He fixed Lestrade with a pointed look, as though he rather wished Lestrade did not count among their number.

“Why?” Lestrade said.

Mycroft’s lips thinned. 

“Recent events have made it likely that there is a mole within our wider circle. I have a backup team at my disposal, but I will not call them until I am sure we have the correct location. I cannot risk the information getting back to Moriarty.”

“A mole? Who would-”

“Detective Inspector, I need not remind you that time is a priority in this situation. If you insist on the Spanish Inquisition, you may ride with me in the car to Northumberland, but for now there are more important matters to attend to.”

Mycroft hadn’t raised his voice but Lestrade felt chastened all the same. He didn’t like the man but he knew he could trust him to do his job correctly. He nodded and obediently went over to assist Tomas in packing up the equipment.

He felt his fingers drift towards his mouth again and forced himself to pull them away. It was at least six hours drive to Northumberland. 

He hoped Sherlock and John had that long. 

 

_______________________________________________________________________

 

John had felt numb since his breakdown in Sherlock’s arms. When Moriarty had come for them again, it was like he had just closed down. He could hear every word being said, he was perfectly aware of what was going on, it just felt very far away. Muffled, like music coming from a distant room. Even when Moriarty was goading him, touching him, the whole scene seemed out of focus. The gentle press of a knife to his throat barely registered. 

He wished it could have stayed that way. He was only dimly cognisant of Sherlock removing his clothes, of Moriarty strapping him to the trolley, kissing him. Events remained vague, fuzzy.

But then Sherlock had cried out, unexpectedly, and the sound had shocked him back into his body. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity – Sherlock had never been expressive when it came to pain – or maybe it was the obvious anguish in it. John’s eyes refocused, taking in the room properly. Moriarty was running his hands all over Sherlock’s body, and his friend was rigid with tension, limbs straining against the bonds. It was already horrifying and then Moriarty reached down under Sherlock’s hips and John’s heart lurched in his chest.

He couldn’t see properly from his angle but it was pretty obvious what Moriarty was doing. And the worst thing about it was that Sherlock didn’t just look angry or shocked or disgusted. He looked _scared_. As scared as Sherlock ever looked; body suddenly gone still, like he’d frozen up in distress. 

Then Moriarty made a sudden quick motion and Sherlock whimpered, the sound like a dagger in John’s chest.

John wanted to shout out; to try and distract Moriarty, but all he’d learned so far was that wouldn’t end well for either of them. And his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, so thick and heavy he didn’t know if he was capable of speech. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead and his heart was hammering. He recognised a panic attack when he felt one and he shut his eyes, feeling the heat flaming through him, his breath coming up short in his lungs. But no, look at Sherlock, don’t abandon him, keep your eyes on him.

_No, keep them shut, he wouldn’t want you to see this._

John’s panic made the decision for him, his vision going blurry. He could see Moriarty’s hand moving, see Sherlock squirming in place, but the image was fuzzy. His heartbeat wasn’t loud enough to block out Moriarty’s hateful words, however, and hearing them only constricted his chest further.

He tried desperately to suck more air in, tell himself it was all in the mind, but it didn’t help. He just had to ride it out until eventually his pulse began to slow and he could take in a few deep breaths. His tongue came unstuck at last, but far too late to save his friend.

“Sherlock’s first orgasm! What a momentous occasion.”

John hung his head. 

He’d never known if Sherlock would have any interest in sex, even if they were in a relationship. He didn’t mind either way, it would have been more than enough just to be with Sherlock romantically. But if Sherlock had been interested, if he’d wanted to try with John… oh, John had made such plans. To be the first to pleasure Sherlock, show him how good sex could feel, coax him to his release with Sherlock’s full enthusiastic consent.

Moriarty had taken all that now. Taken something precious from Sherlock in the most brutal and ugly of ways. 

John could still feel the anguish and torment of being forced to orgasm at Moriarty’s hand the day before. As devastating as it had been for him, at least he knew what a real, un-coerced orgasm felt like with a partner you loved. Sherlock had never had that.

It was beyond cruel.

He kept his head low and his face blank as Moriarty cleaned Sherlock off. Would it be better if he pretended he’d been out of it the whole time? Less painful for Sherlock?

Moriarty was suddenly back in his face, standing over him. 

“I’m sorry you couldn’t have him first, pet. But I’ll make sure you get a chance, don’t worry. Everyone gets to play.”

John looked up, hoping to convey all the hatred and contempt he possibly could in one glare, and then he heard the sound of retching. He whipped round to see Sherlock vomiting on the floor, and he unconsciously strained against his bonds.

“Please,” he got out, desperately. “Let me… he needs…”

To his utmost surprise, Moriarty untied him. He had a brief idea he should use this chance to attack the man but what was the point, the guards were right outside the door, and he’d only risk further injury to him or Sherlock. Instead he went straight over to his friend, reaching out to rub his back as Sherlock finished purging his stomach.

Sherlock flinched away from the touch almost instantly and John was quick to reassure him.

“No, it’s just me, you’re alright, just get it all up.”

Sherlock relaxed, but only fractionally. John took a second to worry about the mess on the floor, there was hardly anything in it. Sherlock hadn’t eaten in over two days now. Would he have to bargain with Moriarty again to get some food?

John rubbed slow soothing circles on Sherlock’s back until the dry heaves finally stopped.

“I should make you clean that up,” Moriarty said idly from behind them, and John suppressed the urge to knock him to the floor.

“Please can I take him back to the cell?” he said instead, hating how humble his voice came out, but knowing it was necessary to flatter this monster’s ego.

Moriarty stretched slowly, almost feline in his languor. 

“Mmm, no, I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re going back to the cell again, I think I want to open all my presents right now.”

John’s heart sank. Whatever Moriarty’s long game was, it sounded like it was drawing to a conclusion.

“You can take him to brush his teeth however, and you can both change your clothes. I want you nice and spiffy for the final act.”

He whistled through his teeth and the henchmen lumbered back into the room.

“Take them to the bathroom and get them spruced up. Then bring them to the bedroom.”

Sherlock had finally straightened beside John and Moriarty grinned at them both.

“Foreplay’s over, boys. It’s time for the real show.” 

 

_____________________________________________________________________

 

The atmosphere in the car was heavy and oppressive. Lestrade was sitting next to Mycroft, Tomas opposite them and an as yet silent man in the driver’s seat. Mycroft was tapping away on his laptop for most of the journey, while Tomas cleaned and reloaded various lethal looking guns. The only words spoken so far were when Mycroft fussily demanded Lestrade put his seatbelt on, even though Tomas clearly hadn’t. Lestrade almost asked the mute driver to put on some music at one point, if only to see if he could make any of them crack a smile. Fat chance.

He hated the silence because he only had his thoughts for company, and right now they were tied to one particularly gruesome track in his mind. He’d learned more about Moriarty in the last two days than he’d ever known before, and most of the new information he could have done without. Mycroft and the rest of the team may have been able to stay impassive in the face of this madman’s brutality, but Lestrade was sick to his stomach with it. The thought of John and Sherlock being subjected to the things he’d heard about made his hands shake and his knees threaten to buckle. While he was grateful for the professionalism and efficiency of Mycroft’s team, he longed for someone as brash and upfront as Donovan to show a little emotion. If Donovan was here she’d no doubt be ranting about what a psycho Moriarty was and how he deserved to be hung by his thumbs or chewed up by rats or something. All this calm proficiency was doing his head in; he wanted someone to be angry and afraid with him.

He knew that wasn’t entirely fair. Mycroft was clearly worried about his brother, even if he wasn’t showing it. But, God, he wanted him to show it. He wanted to feel less alone.

Lestrade suddenly realised this was exactly why John and Sherlock worked so well together. You couldn’t have all that single minded intensity on its own, it needed to be balanced by a little common sense, a little normality. Everyone needed reminding to be human sometimes, even Sherlock. Especially Sherlock. And it wasn’t a one way street, Sherlock had helped John too, Lestrade knew it. They just… worked, the pair of them.

Lestrade prayed to the God he didn’t believe in that Moriarty hadn’t managed to shatter that beyond repair.

Four hours in, he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

“How did you narrow it down to those two locations?” he asked, without preamble.

Mycroft didn’t look up from his screen.

“Predominantly using the patterns we’ve noticed in Moriarty’s previous operations. He tends to occupy properties a fortnight in advance of their use, hence our search for police reports of unusual activity in a two week timeframe. The properties are usually large, to accommodate his inner circle, with high vantage points for snipers to be situated if necessary. We used these pattern analyses to identify what kind of cars he favours for transport, we also scanned CCTV at garages for operatives of his that we recognise, etcetera, etcetera. It’s a very intricate programme.”

Mycroft finished with a very small sniff, as if to suggest that Lestrade had no hope of grasping these complexities. Regardless, Lestrade pressed on.

“And what about the mole?”

Mycroft met his eyes for a second before closing his laptop.

“On the night Sherlock and John were taken I was not watching their flat. I was lured by a false trail to a flat in Kilburn. The intelligence could only have come from a small number of people, and I can make an educated guess that similar misleading information has been fed to me before. However, nothing that has had such drastic repercussions as the Kilburn tip off did.”

Mycroft suddenly sounded tired and Lestrade noted the pinched set to his face. He felt a twinge of sympathy.

“I’m sure we’ll find them in Northumberland,” he said reassuringly.

“Oh, they’re not in Northumberland,” Mycroft said airily.

Lestrade wasn’t sure he had heard correctly for a second.

“Sorry, what?”

“They’re not in Northumberland,” Mycroft repeated. “They’re in the Lake District. Which is where we happen to be headed right now.”

“But you said-”

“I lied. Because you see Detective Inspector, I know exactly who the mole is.”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered past Lestrade.

“Isn’t that right, Tomas?”

Lestrade turned to see Tomas frozen in his seat, a momentary panic flicking across his eyes. Then, quick as a flash, he clicked the dismantled gun in his hand back together and pointed it straight at Lestrade and Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, Mycroft, always so dramatic. You couldn't have waited till he wasn't holding a gun?


End file.
